Dance of Puppets
by Maranwe Elanor
Summary: [Sequel to OMaN] Control. Power. Domination. Ever has the Enemy sought these things. When Elladan and Elrohir become pawns in a deadly game, will Aragorn and Legolas find them in time? Would they be better off not finding them at all?
1. So It Begins

Hi all! I have returned! *g* Technically, I'm not supposed to be posting this, as I've decided to have a rule about not posting an unfinished story. But--I've decided to bend the rules and give it to you anyway. I_ think_ I'll manage to finish the last couple of uncooperative chapters before it's time to post them. I'd tell you how many chapters there are, but I don't know yet. 

I've also come to the rather painful decision that I'm going to post every other day. *winces* Even saying it hurts. Of course, that is subject to change if conditions aren't met: namely, if I don't get reviews. I'm not gonna bust my butt to get chapters up if I don't know people are enjoying them, and two--everyone knows this one: if I don't have enough time. Schedules have a nasty habit of changing, so it may push a chapter back a day or two if something happens, but I shall try to be diligent and prompt. 

Um . . . Can't think of anything else, so that makes all for the pre-story notes. *g* 

**Title: Dance of Puppets**

**Author: **Maranwe 

**Rating:** PG-13, might be higher for later chapters but I'm not sure. I'll warn of questionable material before each chapter. 

**Spoilers:** Yes. Lol. Okay, let's see: for False Reality, I think, Of Memories and Nightmares, I know; First Meetings (Cassia and Sio's story) and . . . That's probably it. I think that's it. 

**Summary:** Begins about three months after Of Memories and Nightmares. Aragorn and Legolas have been healing in Mirkwood, and the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, have been trying to keep their mind off their little brother so as not to worry. They accepted a simple errand to that effect and left Rivendell for a peaceful little excursion. The reappearance of a dispised evil grabs the twins and sends Aragorn and Legolas on a race to find them--when they aren't even sure they're missing. Will the unseen hands of fate guide them true? Or are there other forces at work, forces more dangerous than the nurturing hands of the Valar? 

**Disclaimer:** They aren't mine. Celboril belongs to Cassia and Siobahn, and I somehow forgot to ask if I could use him, so if he doesn't appear later, that's because I didn't get permission to use him. *winces* But he's their's, and Tolkien's aren't mine, and the only one's that are mind are evil, it seems. Gee, that's nice. No, wait, hehe. Never mind, I found some of mine that aren't evil. 

**Warnings:** Violence. Some pretty nasty violence at the end that I blame on holiday stress. *g* Nasty traffic, holding me up. Lol. 

_This story is dedicated to all my wonderful reviewers from Of Memories and Nightmares and False Reality because you all make it so much fun to write. Thanks so much!_

Last story responses are at the end of the chapter. 

Review and have fun! Happy New Years! 

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**Prologue**

A cloaked and hooded figure strode quickly through the streets of Corstratveil, a small town with a reputation for being cut-throat, a place where people could go when they did not want any questions asked. The buildings were simple and slightly run-down, the streets muddy and unkempt. The few people outside as dusk cloaked the land glanced at him and scurried out of the way. They did not know who he was, and they did not want to know. 

The figure's steps were light, almost unnaturally so, as he made his way through the town to a certain building, seeming to almost glide across the ground. It was distinguishable only by its severe disrepair, an air of gloom hanging over the place like a shroud. Without a sound, he turned and pushed through the knobby door into the shabby building. 

There was little light, and the light there was cast harsh and deep shadows. All wore hooded cloaks, and few paid more than cursory attention to the newly arrived figure, save to mark his passage in case he proved a threat. None would challenge him. No one was ever challenged. That was the beauty of the place. Each person's business was his own. 

He paused inside the door, his gaze unseen, scanning the occupants of the room. Most shrunk as they felt his gaze, whether they knew why a shiver ran up their spine or not. Only one did not. 

The dark figure strode over to a small table situated in a quiet corner of the room, secluded from the rest of the occupants by impression if not by a barrier. Deadly power hidden behind flimsy cloth, he crossed the room and saw the figure before him shift uncomfortably. He spoke, "Everything is in order." It was a statement that would brook no denial. 

The one across from him nodded. "It is, my lord." 

"Good." Dark, gleeful anticipation sounded in his voice, sending a chill down the spine of his accomplice. "Good. You know where they are?" 

Another nod. "Sources confirmed their position yesterday. Everyone is in place." 

"Do not strike too soon, Conyc. It would be . . . devastating if you were to mess up. My Master would not be pleased. You know what happens when my Master is not pleased, do you not, Conyc?" His voice was silky, an anticipatory glee hiding under his words of warning. He would actually enjoy nothing more than to have an excuse to . . . play with the man before him. 

He swallowed. "Yes, my lord." 

"When he is not pleased, I am not pleased. You do not want me to be displeased." 

The man's hands tightened where they rested, betraying his anxious agitation. Silence hung in the air before he found his voice. "They will be ours, my lord." 

"See to it personally," the dark figure instructed, then he rose. The one before him watched, knowing that any failure of the plan would result in pain for him. As quickly as the figure had come, he was gone, faded away to join with the shadows of the night that had crept upon the city in their absence, inseparable from the darkness that surrounded him. 

When this was over, the fate of Isildur's heir would be assured, and the elves who harbored him would know his wrath. He had an old friend to show his place. 

~*~*~*~*~* 

Aragorn jerked awake with a gasp. His hand immediately sought out his sword at his side, but his fingers caught naught but the flesh of his hip. Panic shot through him and he sat up quickly, silver eyes darting around rapidly to locate the threat. His mind screamed danger. 

But with the coming of wakefulness came the realization of place, and the calming of fears. He knew where he was, knew who he was with, and knew there was no reason to fear. That no one else was in his room only served to enhance that fact. 

With a hand that shook slightly from reaction, he pushed back his unruly hair, and his eyes automatically sought the balcony that hung off his room where heavy curtains were drawn across the entrance, moving slightly with the strong wind that battered them. Tossing back the fabric that covered his legs, he swung them over the side and moved to his feet, slowly pulling a quilt around his shoulders to ward off the chill as he moved to stand outside. The cold immediately bit through his bare feet, making them ache terribly, but he did not mind, not yet. It was his hands that gave him trouble, but he ignored them, too. 

The full feel of winter hung over the forest of Mirkwood, the trees bare of their leaves and waving in the powerful bursts of cold air that tossed them to and fro. Snow covered the ground in irregular piles, some also claiming residence on the balcony, and it crunched beneath his feet before melting, the cold biting into his feet before numbing them completely. When he reached the railing, he brushed off some of the snow, watching idly as it fell to the ground, then he turned his gaze to the stars. 

Thranduil's palace was the only place in Mirkwood where one could see the stars, and the ranger was thankful for the view as he sought out the light of Earendil. What troubled his heart, he could not tell, but a shadow was growing in his mind, speaking of danger, yet he did not think he was in danger. Mirkwood, while not one of the safest realms, was safe enough. And though the elves were not the friendliest towards humans would not harm a guest under their liege's care. King Thranduil himself was perhaps not the kindest elf, but he was far from the cruelest, and the young man knew he was safe in the king's house. That meant the danger must come from another quarter. 

Immediately, his thoughts turned to his family. Little was ever wrong with Elrond, but the same could not be said of his sons. Elladan and Elrohir were the two most trouble-prone elves, with the possible exception of Legolas, in all of Middle-earth. He had no idea where they could possibly be, but he had the awful feeling that they were in trouble. In trouble, and there was no way he could help. It was that helplessness that hurt the most. 

He looked back down to his hands, watching in seeming fascination as his fingers traced over the remaining snow on the balustrade, randomly forming a pattern in the snow. There was nothing he could do, and he would have to trust that they would be well. Sometimes that was hard, though, because he worried about his brothers just as much as they worried about him. 

A frown hung about the corners of his lips, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. Why were bad things always happening around him? Why could he not keep his family and friends safe? Why, no matter how hard he tried, were they always in danger? Why did he have to have a heritage that would never let him escape it? Why was he always getting injured? Why was he edain, weaker, vulnerable? Why did everything have to be so complicated? 

He snorted and shook his head, adding one more question to the list of questions he had: why was none of this new? They were all old questions he had yet to find answers--satisfying answers--to. The answers he did have calmed him none at all. Most of them could be summed up with a simple phrase, the answer inherent in his identity: _Isildur's heir._

With a tired sigh, he pulled his arm back and clenched his fists in the soft fabric around his shoulders, drawing it closer to him, forcing his fingers to bend and tighten around the fabric. It was galling that that which he did not want, he could not get rid of, but that which he wanted he could not achieve. He shivered as the cold seeped in through his feet and cut through the light elven material around his shoulders, a fine trembling that was not held even from his lips, and he could hear his teeth chattering lightly but uncontrollably. He clenched his jaw shut, but that did not stop the shivers that wracked his frame. 

"Are you trying to get sick, human?" a voice demanded from behind him. 

The ranger turned, looking back at his friend of several years. The elf prince hovered just past the curtains dressed simply in a light pair of pants and a loose long sleeved shirt. His hair was pulled back from his face simply, loose from the braids he usually kept them in. For all that he looked sleep disheveled, Aragorn would have been hard pressed to say his friend had actually slept. 

"Are you making these late night visits a habit?" the young man shot back, arching an eyebrow expectantly. 

Legolas smiled and walked the rest of the way forward, turning when he reached the railing so he could lean against it. "Why aren't you sleeping?" 

Aragorn shrugged. "I thought I felt something, but I was wrong. I could not go back to sleep." 

"So you decided to freeze instead?" demanded the blonde-haired elf, looking caught somewhere between concern and amusement. 

His lips twitched briefly, then he looked away into the distance once more, watching the trees sway in the wind. "I had not thought it, no, but now that you mention it. . . ." 

Legolas shoved him playfully, and Aragorn started laughing, more than happy to take this distraction from his thoughts. That was a path he did not care to travel down for fear that it would lead back down that path he had just left, and he did not think he could survive another trip so soon. "Never," he denied, firmly. "But what troubles your thoughts this night? What did you feel?" 

The ranger sighed, glancing back at his friend with a slight scowl before once more seeking out the light of the stars. "I worry for my family," he admitted softly. "I thought . . . and yet it cannot be true." 

"What?" the elf prince pried, frowning slightly as he took in the concern in his friend's gaze. 

"That they were in trouble. That danger haunts them, a danger they do not expect." 

Legolas watched the young man's profile closely, mulling over his words in silence for a few moments, testing them in his mind, before he ventured a response. He pushed away from the railing, drawing his friend's eyes. "Likely they are back, safe in Rivendell, to face the winter chill. Nothing could hurt them there." 

Slowly, Aragorn nodded, himself moving away from the railing to follow his friend inside. As they stepped through the divide and entered the ranger's room, Aragorn spoke. "Yes, you are probably right, my friend. And it is useless to worry." 

But even as he spoke, he glanced back towards the stars now hidden from his view, a nagging doubt wriggling in the pit of his stomach, saying it was not so. 

**Chapter 1 **

The sky was clear. The grass was a pale green that crackled under foot as the _clip-clop_ _clip-clop_ of pounding hoofs raced across its surface. The wind howled, racing against itself to reach the sea, ignoring all obstacles in its way and rushing around the ones it could not push through. It teased hair and cloaks, swirling them around and into the faces of the elves, wrapping them around necks and arms. 

The identical beings caught by the wind's fury paid no mind to the twisting of their clothing, eyes fastened straight ahead, fixed on the horizon that was their goal. They had been absent for nearly three months and had had no news of their youngest brother. Their hearts ached with the thought that the worst could happen and they would not be there. 

When they had left Rivendell ninety days ago, they had been headed north to meet with a group of Dúnadain and share news. Information had reached Elrond that needed to be shared with the rangers, and they had volunteered to carry it, more than willing to make the journey. Their years of hunting orcs with the rangers had developed a strong bond between them, and if there was danger then they would help. 

Once the message was delivered, they had traveled further west with the rangers till they came abreast the Old Forest. There, they had encountered a group of their kin traveling to the Gray Havens. Old friends, and they had traveled with them to the Blue Mountains ere they took their leave. In that time, the days had melted away and winter had come. Now its fury was upon them and it was only their elven resistance to cold that allowed them to ride on, though for the sake of their horses they would need to stop soon. 

As the sun passed closer to the mountain peaks behind their backs and the light lessened, the wind grew cooler and they could feel their horses heaving for breath. They exchanged a glance, and whispered for their mounts to slow, gradually easing them into gentle walk. 

Elladan looked around. "We will need to camp for the night, brother." 

"Indeed," Elrohir agreed, his blue eyes shifting to his sibling. "But I would not choose to do it here." 

"Long have all hint of shadow been gone from this land," Elladan reminded him. 

"Yet it remains unclaimed by allies." 

Elladan shook his head with a bemused smile. "And who do you know who would reside here? The Halflings are content in their Shire, thank you very much. The Dúnadain will remain a wandering people and claim no specific land until the shadows depart from the east and the north to plague Middle-earth no longer. And the Elves. . . . We leave these shores. We have no need to claim more land. Too few of us remain." 

"Aye," Elrohir agreed soberly. "And it is only the light of the Elves that could restore this land to the beauty it once knew." 

"But it is still beautiful, brother." 

Elrohir laughed. "Indeed. Mayhap it is only my concern for Estel that tints my feel of this land. Something seems off." 

"Indeed, it must tint my perceptions also," Elladan agreed, scanning their surroundings thoughtfully, though he caught nothing that spoke of ill-will. The animals that wandered the lands east of the Blue Mountains were quietly roaming, moving about the lands they had come to claim as their own with indifferent ease, and the sounds of their peace reached the elven ears, despite the roar of the wind. It was dying down as the sun bid its last until the next morrow. He looked back to his twin. "Estel will be all right. He is strong." 

The younger twin nodded without comment, and the brothers passed on in silence, lulled into brooding thoughts by the steady rocking of their horses' steps. Slowly, the long distance between them and Rivendell was passing beneath their feet, their path gradually taking them to the Brandywine and into more heavily wooded places, though he trees were still relatively few and far between. After the woodless plains, though, a single beech was welcome. 

Elladan chuckled wryly. _I'm beginning to sound like a wood-elf_, he mused, their love of trees well-known, even to the edain. _Must be Legolas' fault._ Yet he would forgive that elf anything if their brother returned to them. He stared at the soft mane before him, idly running his fingers through the light hair. 

He was surprised, then, when Elrohir called out to someone he had not been aware of. "Hail, travelers! How fare thee?" 

A small group, maybe a dozen strong, looked up from where they had been making camp, most still busy with the horses while the few women were hovering about the fire, readying their meal. Their clothes were filthy, a muddy brown that spoke of hard use without enough opportunities to wash. Most of the faces were smudged with dirt, and many of the people's expressions spoke of hard times. An older man with a strong bearing stepped forward and raised a hand in greeting. 

"Hail, and well met!" he called, watching the two beings approach. 

Elladan and Elrohir reigned their horses in, the two creatures coming to a halt mere feet from where the man who had addressed them stood. He had dark brown hair cut just above his shoulders in the style of those who hail from Gondor, just beginning to gray at the temples. His eyes were a pale green with hints of gray set deep in a chiseled face. The twins dismounted. 

"What bears you so far west? Need you aid?" Elladan inquired, his gaze fixed on the man before him as Elrohir scanned the others with his keen sight. 

"I fear, indeed, we are," the man said, casting a sorrowful glance back at his companions. "I am Gorvan. Me and my company fancied a journey west. We have not had chance to venture past our borders before. We stopped in Rohan, but wanted to see further lands. Now, I am afraid, we are lost, and our supplies are running as thin as our resolve." 

"It is a wonder you made it so far," Elladan commented, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Men are not seen often in these parts. But mayhap we can offer some assistance. We were heading home, and Lord Elrond would likely be willing to see your stocks refurbished ere you head back." 

"Truly?" Gorvan responded, a new light shining in his eyes. "We would be most grateful for any aid your lord would be willing to bequeath. We are a sorry bunch." 

Elrohir nodded. "We were about to camp, so we can wait here and then begin the journey tomorrow morning with first light." 

A woman, perhaps in her mid thirties, approached the pair, wiping her hands on an already grimy-looking apron. They came clean, though, so it was apparently cleaner than it looked, for the time being at least. She smiled at them gratefully and tucked a loose strand of curly hair behind her ears. "I am Frauni. Thank you so much for your help. I fear we would not last much longer on our own." A somewhat accusing glance was leveled at Gorvan. 

"It is no trouble, my lady," Elrohir said graciously. She smiled and went back to the fire, immediately lending her aid to the other women preparing their dinner. They seemed relieved by this turn of events, as did the rest of the men who continued tending their horses without a word. 

With naught else to do, the twin sons of Elrond turned to the tending of their own horses, talking quietly to them in elvish as they did so, murmuring comforting words and blessings for carrying them so faithfully through the cold wind. The horses nickered back quietly, more than willing to face the cold for their masters. 

When the dinner was prepared, Elladan and Elrohir were handed bowls of stew and bid sit around the fire. They acquiesced easily and sat around the fire as the people began eating. After several moments of silence, a few began telling stories. 

Apparently, in their long march across Arda, they had fallen victim to any number of things, from orcs to broken harnesses to bumps and bruises and injuries enough to rival Aragorn's own record. It was simply too incredible to contemplate, and all around the fire were soon laughing, even if the misdeed in question had occurred to them. 

For a little while, the twins even managed to forget their concern for their little brother, the constant ache in their hearts pushed to the back of their minds as more immediate concerns took over. But by the time all were ready to bed down for the night, the worry had returned, and though Elladan and Elrohir knew they needed to stop, it was still hard to admit there was nothing they could do. 

Quietly, they moved a ways away from the humans and laid back against the two nearest tree trunks, their swords close at hand, and slowly slid into a light sleep, eyes open as their consciousness wandered the path of elvish dreams. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Legolas walked quickly down the main corridor leading to the Great Hall where King Thranduil conducted his audiences. He needed to speak to his father, and he needed to do it quickly. 

Aragorn had spoken little of his feelings regarding his brothers ever since that night a week ago when he had revealed his concern for their welfare, but Legolas knew it was bothering him, if by no other means than the slight touch of worry that hovered about his eyes no matter what he was doing. It was a hint of sadness that was not even erased by laughter, though it would take someone who knew the human well to see it. 

The only way he knew to erase that pain was to go to Rivendell and let the human see for himself that his family was safe. If they did not leave soon, though, the pass would be closed for the winter, which even now hung heavily over them, threatening its cold fury. If that happened, then there was no way he could help his friend. Even now it could already be too late, but he would not fail for lack of trying. 

He nodded to the guards standing outside the great doors and then brushed past them, pushing open the doors without pausing. No one was inside, courts not in session for the day yet, and Legolas continued past his father's throne to a small door at the back that was all but impossible to see once it was closed. He rapped gently, then pushed it open. 

Thranduil looked up as he entered. Just inside the door, the prince paused, inclining his head respectfully and waiting for his father to admit him. The elder elf smiled slightly, visible only as a lessening of the hard planes of his face. "Legolas, enter." The young Thranduilion stepped forward and took a seat before the table that was spread with scrolls and papers. "What troubles you, my son?" 

He sucked briefly at his bottom lip, inwardly debating how to start. He had gone over many different approaches in his mind, rewording each statement a dozen times, but he had never settled on what he wanted to say. Finally, he decided to be candid. "I would ask permission to go to Rivendell." 

The elven king blinked and sat back, regarding his son with a level gaze. "Would you, now. What has brought this on?" 

"Aragorn believes Elladan and Elrohir may be in danger," Legolas began. 

"He has said this to you?" Thranduil asked sharply. 

Legolas frowned. "He mentioned it about a week ago, but I bid him not to worry. He has mentioned it no more, but I can see in his eyes that his concern has not lessened, only grown. I would go with him to Rivendell ere the pass closes." 

"The sons of Elrond are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves," Thranduil responded. "If they are in trouble, there is little a human can do, ranger or no." 

The prince stiffened at those words, the slight against his friend raising his defenses, but he refused to get in an argument with his father about the merits of men at this time. It would be counterproductive to his purpose, so he ignored the words as best he could and spoke to the other issue. "Likely they are not in trouble, but the uncertainty is difficult. If it were me you worried about, would you not want to go and see that I was safe?" 

His father raised an eyebrow, and Legolas dropped his eyes, knowing full well that it was not a hypothetical situation he talked about. More often than he would have wished, he had worried his father by coming home late or injured, or any number of other things that were beyond his control. 

"Please, father," he begged. "It hurts to see him suffer, even silently, when the pain could be eased by traveling to Rivendell. For all that he learned patience in an elven home, he is still a Ranger and a Man, and both cannot stand inaction." 

"Peace, my son," Thranduil bid. "You are aware that the pass may already be closed, your attempts in vain?" 

He nodded. "But I would not be able to stand it if I could have done something but failed because I did not try." 

Piercing blue eyes stared at him, a lighter shade than his own, but not so hard as they once had been. "You are set on this?" he asked softly. His eyes dropped down to the papers scattered about the table when his son nodded. Legolas waited as patiently as he could for his father's decision. The elven king looked back up. "Then go with my blessing," he said quietly. 

It took a moment for those words to sink in, but when they did, the younger elf smiled and stood. "Hannon le, atar," he said, the gratitude in his eyes saying far more than his words ever could. 

Thranduil nodded, a smile stealing over his own features. "Stay safe, my son. Return to me whole." 

"I will." He bowed deeply, then turned on his heel and rushed from the room. If he and Aragorn were to make the pass before it closed, they would need to leave, and leave now. It was the work of but a few minutes to weave through the corridors of his home, the path well-known to him after so many years. 

Surprising and yet not so, he found Aragorn asleep, the covers pulled up around his head, his face turned away from the door. His dark hair was spread across the pillow while some of it fell across his face and moved slightly with every exhalation he made. 

A small smile crossed his face as he paused inside his friend's door. A man he claimed to be, but he looked so young when he was relaxed that it was truly difficult to see him as a grown man, never mind that elves did not age. Then, without further hesitation, he crossed the room and knelt on the edge of the bed, leaning over to grab the man's shoulder. He shook him. "Strider, wake up." 

The young man moaned softly and tried to pull away, his eyes fluttering slightly, though he fought consciousness. Legolas laughed. "Human, open your eyes or we will never get to Rivendell." 

The effect of those words was priceless. The young man rolled over and pinned Legolas with an intense silver gaze that was suddenly wide awake, his body twisted to look at the elf. "Rivendell?" 

A smile played about his lips, and his blue eyes twinkled playfully. "Aye, Rivendell. Or do you not wish to go?" 

Aragorn blinked several times, incomprehension registering in his eyes. "I . . . wish to go," he murmured, frowning slightly. "How are we going?" 

"I thought we would take the horses," Legolas said. 

"No," Aragorn objected, pushing himself into a sitting position and sliding backwards so his back rested against the carved wooden headboard. "I mean, how did this come about? Surely your father does not want you leaving his care again so soon." 

"You worry too much, Strider," the elf prince laughed. "But as for how . . . I asked." 

"Why?" 

"Are you going to ask questions or are we going to go?" Legolas demanded. "The pass could close any day now. We have little time if we are to make it." 

A smile parted his lips. "Oh fine, keep your secrets," the ranger laughed. "I will find out later. Now leave so I may get dressed." 

Legolas crawled backwards and headed towards the door and Aragorn rolled the other way after flinging off the covers. He pulled open the door to his closet as the elf prince reached the door. He paused. "I will ready the supplies, and we can leave as soon as you are ready." 

"Thank you, my friend," Aragorn told him, silver eyes serious under his dark hair. 

The elf merely smiled, then turned and disappeared from the room. "Do not tarry, Strider!" he called. "You Humans are already slow enough without deliberately moving slower!" 

Laughter drifted to his ears as he disappeared down the hall to finish the necessary preparations. He had spent the night gathering most of the supplies they would need so he would be ready if he got permission. And, if he were to be honest with himself, so they could sneak out quickly if he was denied. He much preferred having permission, though, and he was glad his father had agreed. Now, perhaps he could lay his friend's--and his own--fears to rest. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Slowly, Elladan eased away from elven dreams, his eyes gradually returning to focus on his surroundings, and his keen eyes caught the faintest hint of light from the new rising sun just at the eastern horizon. Quickly, his eyes took in his surroundings, noting the still sleeping travelers near the now burned down fire. His glance strayed toward his brother, and he jerked slightly when he realized his twin was not there. He tensed as he searched around him, and movement on the other side of the camp caught his attention. 

He relaxed upon seeing it was Elrohir, walking easily among the trees carrying a bundle of fresh roots and berries that were hard to come by at this time of season. He smiled slightly and gained his feet. 

"When did you leave?" he asked softly, his quiet voice going unheard by the men in the camp. 

"A while ago. I woke and could not sleep, so I decided to find them some breakfast," he responded with a slight smile. "A break from the monotony, so to speak. They've already met Elves, why not keep things exciting?" 

Elladan shook his head. "We do not need, nor want, exciting, Elrohir. You know what exciting tends to mean." 

His twin's blue eyes sparkled as he moved towards the supply pack to deposit his goods to be found once the camp awoke, and despite their desire to move on, neither elf wished to wake the humans; they had looked so tired the night before. Elladan paced him. "Aye, but there are no Orcs, dear brother. They do not roam here." 

"Mayhap they will come, simply because you want excitement." 

Elrohir snorted. One of the young men rolled over in his sleep, and both brothers froze, going completely still as they waited to see if he would wake up. When he did not, laughing eyes locked on his twin's. "_I_ do not want excitement. I want _them_ to have some excitement." 

"A big difference," Elladan admitted sarcastically. "Well, news, dear brother: we are still with these humans, and any excitement they encounter, we encounter." He turned to look out over the forests before turning back on his younger brother. "And I still have to tell father about the Orcs." 

"You need do no such thing!" exclaimed Elrohir, eyes going wide. "No harm came of it." 

Elladan merely laughed, doing his best to keep it quiet. It was hard, though . . . for all of a dozen seconds, then he sobered, thoughts of his brother rushing back into his mind, for Estel was the reason they had been traveling the pass in the first place. "I hope he is well." 

A forced smile worked its way onto Elrohir's face, a pitiful attempt at his normal good-humor. "He is fine. Likely he is terrorizing every Elf in Mirkwood crazy enough to cross his path with that kooky Prince at his side the whole time." 

Elladan did his best to return the smile, and tried even harder to believe it, but his heart would not cooperate until he had seen his little brother well with his own eyes. He could see a similar sentiment in his twin's gaze that looked so sorrowfully back at him. 

He opened his mouth to speak, whatever words he was about to say cut off as an arrow sliced through the air inches from his face between his and his twin's. Elladan's hand went to his waist automatically, but it met only air and soft cloth. A curse escaped his lips as he dropped to his sleeping mat where he had lain his sword by his side. Elrohir had his bow out and released an arrow into the greenery. Whether or not he hit anything, neither elf could tell. 

Then like a rushing wave, dozens of beings melted from the backdrop of the trees, swarming over them like beetles swarm over a dead carcass, anxious to erase the once living flesh from its blight on the world. The camp behind them woke, too slowly, most of the people barely aware of their danger when they opened their eyes, and Elladan furiously wondered how they had managed to make it so far if they were so inept. Three fell before they had a chance to sit up, their eyes just opened and wide with the shock of their death. 

He turned to those who came at him, striking at them and felling any who strayed too close to him, doing his best to stop them before they could get past him to strike at the men and women who had been placed in his care by his own concern. Behind him and several feet away, Elrohir did the same, finally having abandoned his bow. 

Metal clashed, the vibration from the power of the strike traveling through his wrist and up his arm, but he could not pause and he could not let it bother him. He pushed back and met the next strike, backpedaling to keep his attackers before him as they moved in close, trying to get around him, the strikes coming fast and hard. Against his will, he was slowly being pushed back to the burned-out fire, into the midst of the newly awake men who were only just beginning to fully scramble to counter the attack. They grabbed whatever was at hand. He heard the banging of iron pots behind him and met the attack that came from before him. 

What had happened? Where did they come from? Who were they? He had no idea and could not help but wonder how men could be so different. How they could attack one another without reason or provocation and never give it a second thought. If it were not for the fact that all men were not like that, he would have been worried about the fate of Middle-earth. 

He swung his blade up quickly before him, then to the right, stepping to the side and spinning to miss the strike that came down where his head would have been from the person before him. Pulling the blade point down towards his right side, he countered the strike that came across to his side and ducked the blow aimed at his head. He continued the spin and danced backwards, avoiding two more strikes that came out of nowhere and deflecting another that would have sliced him from hip to hip. 

Behind him, he could hear his brother's struggles and knew himself to be edging backwards, the tide of enemies forcing him back, battering at him relentlessly, and he could not focus enough on one enemy long enough to finish them off. After the first few, none seemed to stray close enough, and yet they poked at him relentlessly. He frowned, then danced quickly backward, jumping over a bag on the ground. He was in the midst of the camp. 

A crash and familiar cry behind him spun him around. He saw his brother crash to the ground, saw him collapse under a tide of bodies. He took a step in Elrohir's direction, intending to cut the men who hurt him down, intending to leave the travelers to fight their own battles, intending to go to his flesh and blood. He intended . . . and yet managed none of it. 

The elf turned his attention away from the men who surrounded him, turned his back, and he made it only one step before something hard impacted with the back of his head, sending a sharp report through his skull and fuzing his vision, making it jump and blur around the edges. In the split second before he lost consciousness, he saw his brother lying on the floor, felt his knees go weak and begin to drop him, and saw the ground coming ever closer. 

He never felt himself hit the ground. 

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_Review Responses:_

Elfmage: Um . . . Yes? I think that was a cliffie, in a way. Thank you so much. I'm so glad you loved it, and I hope you enjoy this one! 

Kathira: Aragorn torture I can do. It's Legolas torture I seem to have trouble with. *frowns then smiles brightly* I'm glad you liked. Truly, you have no idea. 

Deana: Well, not ealier than New Years, but it's not later than it either. *g* Hope you like this one, too. 

Aragornsthe1: Enquiring minds could find out, but then that would ruin any surprises, wouldn't it? *smiles serenely* I'll guess you'll just have to read and find out. That'll be horribly taxing, I know. *g* Thanks for reviewing! 

Nell Marie: I like the light-hearted endings, too. And the not-so-light-hearted epilogue definitely meant there was another story on the way. Lol. Subtle, aren't I? *smirks* 

Bill the Pony2: Ooh, I'm so glad! I have good news, there will be plenty of chapters for you to enjoy . . . Unless they're bad, then there'll be plenty for you to hate. Hmm. . . . I was glad to hear from you. I was debating whether or not to post on schedule or wait till I had finished, and it's because of your email that I decided to post, so . . . . *g* hehe. 

Grumpy: Ah ha, you took my request seriously, and I'm so horrified to say you were right: I had forgotten about the mountain pass. At the moment, I can't remember if I included anything about it or not. I think I did. *grimaces* It's been so long since I read that part. I know where it would be if it was there, so I'll have to check. The figure with the bloody hands will be identified . . . Eventually. *g* You just might have to be intuitive to get it. As for Legolas. . . . *shrugs* He should. Honestlly, I would. 

NaughtyNat: lol. Yes, you were both 50th and 100th reviewer. You can shoot for adding 25th and 75th to the dubious honor if you like. Hehe. Lol, I can so picture that, too! In fact, that gives me an idea. . . .I just don't know if it will work. Hmm. . . . I didn't say how those two found them because Raniean and Trelan won't tell me. *looks peeved* It's quite rude of them, actually, but they won't tell until the ell prince and ranger spill the beans, so we'll all have to wait. *g* Nasty works. Wait till the last handful of chapters. . . . I mean last handful I have currently written. It's not done yet. I'm getting hearitly tired of this thing. It won't _stop_. 


	2. To Cross the Pass

Hi everybody! I'm delighted to know you approve of the first chapter--plus prologue. I don't have much to say before I let you dive in. I'm sure there was something I was going to say, but (like always) it disappeared before I sat down to make final preparations to post, not leaving a trace. 

*smiles brightly* Nine reviews is a record for a single chapter of one of my chaptered stories. I think I can manage to toil away happily if so many of you continue to share your thoughts. Hint, hint. *smiles more widely* Hm, I think I'll do something different for a change. I'm going to put the responses at the bottom. No particular reason, I just want to see how it works. Sorry about not bolding the names last chapter; I forgot. 

Now, I hope I haven't forgotten anything important--I'm always doing that--and enjoy the lastest chapter. My gift for your reviews. *g* Have fun! 

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**Chapter 2**

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****Desiring little more than to reach the High Pass before it was blocked by the winter snows, Legolas and Aragorn rode hard through Mirkwood's path, fairly duplicating the mad dash Aragorn had made with his brothers on his original entrance into the great woods. He grimaced guiltily. _At this pace, I will run poor Hodoer into the ground._ As it was, though, the steed seemed to take great delight in the pounding rush. 

Then, after several days, they reached the mouth of the pass, and the very familiar walls of stone that stretched on as far as his eyes could see rose up before them, impossibly tall. As if by some signal, both horses slowed, their riders watching the entrance warily. 

Feet from committing to the possibly treacherous trip, both stopped, studying the path that was placed before them, lost in thought. Casting back, Aragorn tried to find a single good memory that encompassed this pass and could find none. The closest he could come were the odd, or not so odd, teasing moments with the twins or Legolas as they journeyed from one place to the other, in between dangers while they yet remained hale. His silvery eyes were wary as he studied the snow on the floor. 

Legolas looked at him, the barest hint of a smile teasing his lips. Wryly, he said, "What do you want to bet we'll meet up with Orcs before we make it all the way through?" 

He looked at the elf who had gone through so much for him, with him, and was struck with uncertainty. "Legolas," he began. "Are you sure you don't want to stay in Mirkwood? You do not have to--" 

"Of course I do not have to, Strider," Legolas interrupted, meeting his friend's gaze. "Do you not want me to come?" he demanded, and something like fear chased briefly across his gaze, gone so quickly as to be unidentifiable. 

"Of course I want you to come," the ranger assured automatically, looking as thought Legolas had just slapped him. 

"Then what are you going on about?" the elf prince asked, preempting anything else the ranger might have wanted to add, specifically anything that began with "but". He laughed lightly. "Not even you can make me do something I do not want to do." 

Aragorn grinned, the elf's good humor pulling him away from dark thoughts, and he was not all that eager to stay near them in the first place. He shot his friend a sly glance. "Oh, I see. So you _want_ to be drugged. I will remember that, my friend. Mayhap I should tell Ada, I'm sure he would just _love_ to know how much you favor his tea!" 

"Don't you dare!" the elf exclaimed wildly, well aware of Lord Elrond's infamous tea. The young man burst out laughing, and Legolas could not help but smile in response. It was good to hear the young man laugh, even if it was at his expense, for it erased the shadows that haunted his gaze, and those shadows had remained for far too long. "Come, let us move on. We are here, but that does not mean the pass will stay open." 

The young man responded by urging Hodoer forward, and Legolas followed easily. "How well I know it." 

Blue eyes looked at him curiously. "What does that mean? 

"It means I know it well." The horses trotted along calmly, snorting quietly in the cold air with the thin fall of snow crunching under their hooves as their weight pressed it together and shifted its form. 

Legolas rolled his eyes. "I wonder about you." 

Laughter bubbled up from inside the ranger and spilled from his lips, the sound bouncing of the stone that rose on either side of them. Sparkling eyes regarded the elf. "Join the club." 

"What club?" Legolas asked, confused. The young man only laughed. "Strider, what club? What am I missing?" 

"Nothing important." 

The elf prince studied the human before him, then looked ahead when he decided he was going to get no further answers from the annoying human. He was willing to swear the man got stranger every year. "I didn't think it possible," he commented after a moment, and felt the man look at him, "for you to become any more incomprehensible, but once again I have been proved wrong." 

Instead of Aragorn finding that statement funny like he had thought he would, the ranger calmed and looked at him inquisitively, almost curiously, like the suggestion that the elf had been wrong was a novel concept. "When else were you proved wrong?" 

A gentle smile touched the elf's lips. "When I met you," he answered. "When you showed me that all Men were not the monsters I had believed them to be and I gained a friend I never thought I would have." He laughed lightly and turned to the human. "I have never been so glad to be wrong." 

Aragorn smiled at him. "I'm glad you were wrong, too." 

Now Legolas laughed in earnest. It was so good to have his friend back, truly back, not the twitchy, overly emotional shadow that had wandered into his home months ago. He glanced up, looking at the sky and caught a shift in the winds though he could not see the clouds. "A storm is coming." 

"A storm?" questioned Aragorn, concerned. His brow furrowed as he cast his own eyes up to the sky. It was gray, as though overcast, but no clouds hung overhead. The sun shone down weakly through the chill air, just preparing to descend past the mountains that surrounded them on either side. "Are you sure?" 

"Aye, though we should reach Rivendell before it unleashes its fury." 

The ranger paused, testing the air, but though his senses were keen, he did not yet feel the storm. His hands ached, and he rubbed them idly, barely registering the pain. "Perhaps. But weather around these parts is treacherous, especially at this time of year. Mayhap it will catch us unawares." 

Legolas turned back to look at the human. "Does that mean you do not want to cross the pass?" 

He did not answer for a long minute, staring towards the east, gaze fixed upon the sky as he searched . . . for what, even he could not say. A sign, perhaps, that the storm Legolas foretold was not upon them, that the doom that settled upon his heart at the elf's words was naught but a small boy's fears brought back to life, that there was no more to the storm than a bit of rain or snow and everything would be fine. Why did he think there was any need to be assured of any of it? 

He blinked, turning his gaze from the emotionless expanse above him and felt a gentle hand on his arm. He looked down into the calm, concerned blue eyes of his friend. He smiled slightly. "Let's continue," he announced. "If a storm does threaten, we want to be as close to Rivendell as possible before it strikes. After all, we don't want to be caught in the middle of the pass during a snow storm." He urged Hodoer forward, and Legolas followed. 

"You don't speak from personal experience, do you, my friend?" asked Legolas with a laugh. The ranger did not answer, and the elf blinked at him in surprise before exclaiming. "You do!" 

"And your point is?" demanded Aragorn archly, leveling a stare at his fair friend. 

"Surely your father told you not to go?" 

The stare did not waver. "He did." A strangled laugh escaped the elf. Legolas could not believe he was having this conversation again! Truly, did the human never learn? 

The young man countered. "Tell me, Legolas, have you never done something stupid against your father's advice." 

The elf prince chuckled ruefully. "Strider, since I met you I have done many things my father has warned me against." 

"Then you have no room to talk, Master Elf." 

"That's fine. I do not want to talk. I want you to talk." 

The human looked back at him with a vague smile, caught somewhere between amused and playing innocent. "About what?" 

"This prior experience you have with bad weather in the pass." 

"Oh, that." Aragorn frowned slightly, thinking about it, his expression distant. He shook his head. "It's not important." 

"And your point is?" 

The ranger chuckled. "All it was, was a bit of nieve stupidity and adolescent overconfidence that I do not care to elucidate. But if your curiosity is not to be satisfied with something so vague as that, you may inquire of the twins. They, I'm sure, would be more than willing to tell you." 

"Which means I must wait." 

"Patience is a virtue." 

"So is selflessness," Legolas retorted, "but both can be taken too far." 

Aragorn looked sideways at the elf, his expression wry, eyes slitted. "You would not accept such a response from me," he noted darkly. 

Legolas raised his chin, the patented look of superiority almost comical in their bleak surroundings. It was the kind of look one expected of someone seated on a throne surrounded by treasure and dressed in fine robes (Aragorn would never admit--not even in own his mind--to associating the look with King Thranduil) and had to stifle a laugh even before the prince spoke. "I'm older." 

He snorted, the only indication of his humor, and replied dryly, "That's your excuse for everything." 

"No, my excuse is that you are younger," the Mirkwood archer denied. 

"But you still turn to age as the determining factor," the ranger said, his tone nearly eager. 

"And your point is?" Inquired the prince archly. 

Aragorn glanced over at him, the faintest hint of a smile on his face, then turned around and shook his head marginally, assuming a nonchalant pose. "No, no point. Who needs a point?" He asked. 

Legolas snorted, the sound completely ruining his dignified act. He conveniently decided to ignore it. "So?" he prompted. 

Aragorn glanced back at him and the elf raised his eyebrows expectantly. The human shook his head. "All right, young one." He danced his horse away as Legolas tried to swat at him. "I will tell you." 

"Thank you," Legolas said with dignity. 

They walked on, the snow crunching under foot as the horses moved on. It bounced off the stone walls, quietly, and the sound was loud in the silence, broken only by the lonely whistle of the wind through the canyon. The elf waited expectantly, but Aragorn did not seem inclined to speak. 

Legolas frowned. "Strider?" 

"Hm?" 

"Your story?" he prodded. 

The ranger looked at him blankly. "What about it?" 

"What about it?" Legolas repeated, incredulous. "You said you'd tell, human." 

He caught the faintest hint of a smile on the young man's face as he returned his attention before him, and he could hear amusement in his voice when he spoke. "So I did, Master Elf. But, my friend, I did not say _when_." 

Legolas glared, amusement and irritation battling inside him for domination. That was something the twins would do. They had had far too great an influence on his friend, that was certain. 

Cautiously, the human glanced back at the prince, a smile sparkling in his eyes. Once the ranger got a look at his face, however, the smile reached his lips and became laughter, which made the prince's frown deepen. Unreasonably, this caused Aragorn to laugh harder. The prince glanced away in annoyance, then looked back. "Strider!" 

"I'm sorry, my friend," he said, but he did not look all that sorry, a smile hovering on his face even after he conquered his laughter. "It is not often I am on the other side of this discussion." 

That won a reluctant smile from the elf, even though he had no idea what his friend was talking about, and Legolas shook his head. "Well, now you've had your fun. What happened?" 

"Against my family's wishes, I decided to follow my brothers on a trip to Mirkwood when I was sixteen. What I didn't realize was that a storm was coming nor how cold it could get. On foot and ill prepared, I decided to cross the pass in winter." 

"With a storm coming," Legolas emphasized, his voice low with incredulity. His eyes widened when Aragorn nodded. He shook his head. "I cannot believe you did that." He laughed suddenly, "And yet I can." 

A smirk quirked the ranger's lips. "Your confidence is overwhelming," he noted wryly. 

"Truly, I cannot decide which was more foolish: crossing the pass or crossing the wastelands! Who saved your neck that time? Surely no one else was so foolish." 

The ranger chuckled lightly, scanning the many crags around him for hidden enemies. "I've changed my mind: ask Gandalf and not the twins. Mayhap you will learn something from him I could not." 

"What would Mithrandir know about your folly?" 

"More than I do, I'm sure. I cannot remember how I got home. It was Ada who told me Gandalf who brought me home many days later, and by that time, the wizard was already gone." 

Wide eyes stared at the young man beside him. He opened his mouth, perhaps with the intention of asking what would possess the wizard to travel in such foul weather, perhaps to comment on something else entirely, then closed it and shook his head. "It is not wise to meddle in the affairs of wizards," he finally responded. 

"So I've been told," answered Aragorn. 

"But will you listen?" Legolas pressed, a teasing smile on his face. 

Aragorn glared at him, but the elf was not the least bit impressed and his smile merely widened. The ranger's lips twitched, then he looked ahead and managed to say carelessly, "With you as a role model, what do you expect." 

Legolas shot an amused glare at his friend's back but refrained from commenting. Instead, he let silence fall between them and turned his attention to his surroundings. His keen gaze took in the jagged edges too often broken, the hard stone thrown into sharp relief by the smattering of soft white snow that failed to blanket their surroundings but which nevertheless covered the floor of the pass with several inches. The shadows cast by the light of the sun weighed in his mind, and he tensed. 

Their latest adventure--misadventure if one wanted to be precise--had brought home to him how fragile human lives were, how quickly a situation could change from good to bad, how much he feared losing his young friend and companion. He had thought he realized all this after the many other catastrophes that had sent them to one of their homes, death close on their heels. . . . But there was something about seeing his friend so still, as if death had already claimed him, with nothing to be done and no way to help, no possibility of medical aid bringing him back, that chilled his heart and made him fear the loss all the more keenly. 

The silence, where once there had been speech pressed upon his mind, strangling his senses with expectation. So many bad things had befallen him and his friends in this pass, so many times, that it was hard to imagine there could be no danger. Orcs and goblins so often haunted the unforgiving stone that safety in the harsh land was unimaginable to the elf prince. Silence was best. But the crunch of snow under horse hoof and the steady sound of their breathing echoed loudly in his ears, and for all that there could be danger, he had to fight to remain silent, the need to break it growing with each passing second. 

"Is something wrong, Legolas?" 

The words dropped into the silence, disturbing it as a large stone disturbs a tranquil lake, and Legolas jumped, his eyes darting to his friend who was looking at him curiously, concern tingeing the depths of his silver eyes. "Nay, nothing is wrong." 

"Then what troubles you, mellon nin?" 

Now that the brooding silence had been broken, the concern--the desperation with which he had felt it--seemed ludicrous. He shrugged. "I was thinking of our many adventures here. Such fond memories," he added dryly. 

Aragorn laughed, the sound oddly free to the elf's ears. "Yes. Quite. But I doubt we'll run into any Orcs this time. Me and my brothers took out a fairly large horde on the way over." The elf nodded, but the human continued before he could say anything. "Though we should pick up the pace unless we wish to spend the night." 

The two friends urged their mounts into a quick trot and maintained that pace as many hours slipped past, foregoing lunch in favor of going on and riding until the last light had fled the sky from the pale sun and the first stars had made their appearance above their heads. Then and only then, well away from the High Pass and under friendlier trees, did they come to a halt, finally allowing their faithful steeds a well deserved break; one they were more than willing to give. 

"Hannon le, Ardevui," Legolas whispered, stroking his steed's neck after he gave it food and water. Behind him, Aragorn moved about kindling a fire from dry twigs he had collected from the ground. Their breath clouded before them with every exhale, the temperature (which had not been warm to begin with) dropping further the more time passed. It meant little to him, but he knew his friend was freezing, no matter how well he hid it. "Hannon le, Hodoer," he said and patted his friend's horse even though the ranger had spent several minutes with the creature, then picked up the packs he had removed and carried them next to the fire near Aragorn, who had by that time managed to make a cheery blaze. 

Aragorn looked up at his approach and flashed a quick smile, accepting the packs with a nod and began to prepare supper. Wordless, the elf left to check their surroundings and ensure they had not camped over an orc camp or some other such foul thing that would have been detrimental to their continued health. He found none, and within moments they were both seated peacefully around the fire. 

They sat in comfortable silence as they ate. Just before Aragorn laid down, his quiet voice floated through the air. "We have made good time. We will be in Rivendell soon." 

Idly, Legolas wondered if the words had been meant for his ears, or if they were for Aragorn, himself. The ranger looked ill at ease despite his words, and the elf prince wondered if he had seen something, heard something, or if it was just all their fears getting the best of them after so much darkness. Suddenly discontent, he settled down to maintain his watch. As he did so, he held on to one thought: we will be in Rivendell soon. 

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The land was unmoving, shadows cloaking the trees and all who resided under them, shadows that did not always leave with the coming of the dawn, did not flee from the sun as they ought. Silence stretched, calm in its would-be peacefulness, yet filled with a familiar tension, known to the residents of the wood but unnamed. Yet while the outside was concerned with the shadow, the shadow paid the outside no heed further than was necessary for their plans. 

Deep within the mountain they waited, unearthly shrieks breaking the silence at odd intervals. Fear was the law of the land, and the creatures who roamed the dark tunnels had learned it well, avoiding the tunnels where their masters tread and so went unnoticed by their ire. 

A scream rent the silence and the flames guttered as though in sympathy to the pain in that cry, the fear. Most paused at the sound, the emotions of the listeners ranging from scornful derision to outright glee, the pain and fear of others their life's blood, their own true love. 

Two, though, paid it no heed as they wandered some of the deepest tunnels, far away from their uncouth underlings and away from prying eyes and telling ears. Their robes, one dark gray and the other black, scraped listlessly against the ground, the breathless scraping hanging eerily in the silence. 

"Everything is in place," one said, his satisfaction evident, his voice low and rough as if from too little or too frequent use, the voice of one who has seen too many years. 

"Our enemies will soon know their folly," the second affirmed confidently, his voice ringing with glee, a stark contrast to his companion. 

Sharp black eyes, unnatural looking in light or gloom, darted towards his companion. "The Shadow that once held all Middle-earth in sway grows strong yet again. This day has been a long time in coming." What he thought of this, whether approval or not, was hard to say. His words lacked inflection, said as if by rote. His eyes reflected all and told nothing. 

The second stepped forward and turned, forcing the other to stop, his eyes the only thing to be seen beneath his hood, fierce and unyielding, hard as ice, a malicious sparkle in the gloom. "All is ready. My men will not fail and the sons of Elrond shall be in our grasp." 

Silence passed as those words sunk in, their threat hovering in the air as if in challenge, a challenge that went unanswered and slowly fell away. 

The first spoke, his voice both placating and warning. "I have no doubt that the Elf twins will come to your hands, capable as they are. It is more uncertain, however, if they will divulge the information you desire." 

"They will. Or rather, they will be made to." A certain fiendish amusement could be detected in his voice if one listened closely enough, a certain scorn, as if he derived pleasure from knowing the weaknesses of others but could not hold with any such weaknesses himself. "Their weakness is in their compassion . . . for their friends, their family. Once we have their loved ones, their resistance will crumble and we will have what we desire. All you must do--" 

"Do not presume to know my business, lord's servant." The words boomed through the space, filling the cavern in which the figures stood before dying away to be replaced by others, spoken more softly. "I know what I must do." A beat passed in which both contemplated the matter they had undertaken, the course events were supposed to take. "And the problem?" the first inquired after a moment. 

"Will be dealt with," was the short, flat reply, the answer brooking no argument. 

The other nodded. "Then all is well." The words were soft, nearly condescending. 

Had his companion not known full well the necessity of their mutual cooperation for success, he would have punished him for his insubordination. As it was, he contented himself with silence, relishing the knowledge that he would not need him very long. He listened to the terrified screams that just barely reached his ears from above, relishing the pain. 

The foresight of his kind was his, and he smiled, a terrifying smile that was full of deadly promise, and the words he spoke next rung with prophecy. "The world of Men will fall. The lands of Middle-earth will be covered in Shadow, and Sauron will be restored to his rightful place as lord of all the earth. We will hold dominion of all lands both east and west. 

"They will be ours." 

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_Review Responses:_

Pibgorn: I will most definitely continue. Thanks for the review! 

Rangergirl: Thank you so much! Aragorn torture I can do. *g* 

Tychen: *bows* I shall endeavor to comply with the wonderful request. Lol. Means, okay. I've been completely distressed at the lack of good literature, lately. I've been forced to peruse other categories, and theirs isn't exactly better. *frowns* Hmm, Legolas had it tough? *looks suspicious* Is that your way of telling me Aragorn needs to suffer even more? *g* Okay. 

Bill the Pony2: lol. Ai, let's not get started on ff.net. It seems there's always a complaint that can be made. I would like to see one month where no hold ups occur, no slow uploads, no server busy messages, nadda. It's not gonna happen. *g* You love it? It took me forever to come up with it. In fact, I only decided on it moments before I posted. There's a whole string of titles I considered before deciding on this one. Thanks. Lol. Though it could be possible. I could just follow the example of some of those authors who are currenly writing Harry Potter stories. They give me headaches. *shakes head* *smiles* I'm glad your efforts to read proved worth it, and I hope this time isn't so difficult. 

Grumpy:*giggles* Thanks, I've missed my stories, too. Lol. It's so--strange, not to post every couple of days, and I've missed hearing from everyone. Hehe. The twins, yes the twins are in here, and if I wrote it right, there's plenty of worry to go around. Mm, yes, holidays were good, holidays are always good until they're over. *smiles sadly* Just two more days of freedom, and I don't even have this story completed, must less the other one I believe you're waiting for. *sigh* And you? Have you enjoyed the holidays? 

Kathira: lol. More misery indeed. I hope my plot is as well thought out as you think. I sort of lost the thread around the fifth chapter and had to pick it up again after a month long writers block, but we'll see. It feels rushed to me, which sounds completely ridiculous of a three-hundred page story. I appreciate your encouragement. It's nice to hear others say its worth it to continue. Thanks. 

Lana G: Ah. *winces* Shamefully, I must admit I temporarily forgot about that. So sorry. But I shall see something done about it. I just kinda didn't write the parts where it would have been most logically included, and so it wasn't. Thank you for reminding me! It's so easy to lose the little things when I'm worried about keeping it moving. I'm glad you're enjoying it. *g* 

Elfmage: Hm, healers come to mind. *g* Oh, yes, the air, too. You're talking to an insane person who wears flipflops when it's about forty degrees outside and the wind is blowing. I know all about cold feet. Cold feet hurt. *bows* Why, thank you. My standards must be really, really high, because I thought the detail was a little lacking. You can see a problem here: I always fear its not good enough. *sigh* I've got an Aragorn-complex. Lol. Oh, if you want cliffies, read The Storm. *grins wickedly* The whole story is pretty much a cliffie. They're more fun. 

Arcana: I'm glad you've enjoyed my other stories, and I hope this one proves just as enjoyable. As a fellow reader, I completely understand the lack of good stories. It's frustrating; as a writer, I'm thrilled that my work falls into the category of "really good." *g* How long is too long? 


	3. Home

Hi everyone! You may have noticed that this post is later than the preious two. That's because school has restarted and I can no longer be up at midnight if I wish to drive the next day. Posting in the morning before I leave for school is out because I'm too lazy for one, and two, would never be able to achieve it consistently. Thus, you can now expect the posts more towards eight o'clock (I'm guessing that's about, possibly, hopefully when ff.net will get it up).Obviously once I click the button the whole thing's out of my control. 

How is everyone for useless trivia? *g* Well, this chapter has not only been edited, it has been revised, completely rewritten at parts and is one thousand seventy-seven words longer than the original. I hope it's actually better. I think it is but I'll never know. *sigh* 

No one has asked, but I'll tell you anyway: this fic (I think I can actually call it a novel) is 29 chapters long, incomplete. I figure, depending on how cooperative the characters are, that there's another two or three chapters to be written. I refuse to write more than 35, and even that is far too long, but. . . . I caught between conflicting desires: either to simply end it and stop my misery *g*, or write it correctly and have it flow. . . . 

Which brings me to a new matter. I shall warn you know that chapter 4 might be late in coming. It depends on how well my revisions go, because I have come to the decision that it does not _flow_. If anyone caught my convienent omition of about a week at the end of OMaN, the one that circumvented all the healing and healers and all that, then you know about what happened between three and four. *blinks* I mean that about a week was skipped between the end of one and the beginning of the other. I have to change that because it seems like I'm starting a completely new story. Terrible. So, you've been warned.****

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****I think that about covers it. Now, onto the fic; responses are at the bottom. I rather like that sytem now that I've started it. *g* Have fun. 

(Oh, and please review. I need the encouragement. Really. I feel so guilty about slacking off in writing when I read what you guys think, so it gets everything done faster and better. Pressure, you know.)****

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**Chapter 3**

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****Aragorn and Legolas rode quickly into Rivendell, the sun just beginning its westward descent as they made the fair elven territory. No one challenged them as they passed and it was mere moments before they dismounted before the Last Homely House of Elrond Halfelven, lord of Imladris. It was a familiar and welcome sight that greeted them, and the last of Aragorn's unease released its hold on the young man. 

As they swung down from their steeds, two elves materialized as if from nowhere and led their horses to the stables. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, very familiar and quite welcome to the young man who viewed him. Of all the things that had changed in his short life, the elf lord was eternal, unchanging through all the dangers that passed by. At least, that was the way it seemed to the young human, and it did his heart well. 

The Lord of Imladris had started down the stairs at their approach, a gentle smile curving his lips, and he met the two friends at the bottom of the stairs. Both younger beings stopped about two feet away and bowed in traditional elvish fashion. A mischievous smile played about Aragorn's face as he looked back up. 

Elrond stood, watching the two friends, and raised an eyebrow as his son looked at him. The smile widened, then the human stepped forward and wrapped his father in a hug, holding him close as he felt the other's arms wrap around his back. It felt so good to be home, to have left the shadows that made him uncomfortable in this place of safety far behind. "I'm sorry, Ada," he murmured. 

"There's nothing to be sorry for, my son," the elf lord replied, and after a few more moments, Elrond pulled back and rested his hands on the young man's shoulders, holding him at arms length so he could get a good look at him. "You're in one piece," he said, sounding surprised. 

Legolas laughed behind him, and Aragorn could not help but smile as he glanced back at his friend. Of course, that meant the elf lord turned his attention to the prince, as well. "Welcome back to Rivendell, Legolas Thranduilion. It is a pleasure to have you back among us. And in one piece, as well." 

Legolas inclined his head with a smile as Aragorn laughed. "I am glad to be here. And I couldn't very well let the young one come alone." 

"And now you're stuck," Aragorn finished with a devilish smile. "The Pass is surely closed by now." 

"You ventured the Pass?" Elrond asked. He gestured back towards the angry clouds that could not be seen past the lip of the valley but which the two companions had seen just before they descended. "At this time of year? With such weather threatening?" 

"We rode fast." 

The elf lord studied them, exasperation briefly showing on his face, then he sighed. "At least you both made it in one piece, never mind how. Now come in and get warmed up." 

Obediently, the friends followed Elrond inside, and the young ranger looking around at the familiar sights--though there was one sight he had expected which did not present itself, and the worry that had fled upon his arrival started to worm its way back into his heart. _Maybe they're just on a small errand_, he tried to reason. _After all, you sent no word. They had no reason to expect you._

He moved up closer to Elrond. "Ada, where are Elladan and Elrohir? Are they not here?" 

The elf lord glanced at him, his look shadowed though the young man could not read the expression. "No," the elder answered. "They are on an errand." Then more loudlt, "Celboril, if you please." 

Celboril exited the kitchens bearing a tray laden with drinks and pastries, then preceded them into the Great Hall, the fires already lit and roaring when they entered. He put the tray down on a table, then turned to the new arrivals with a critical eye. 

He scanned them both, seemingly not believing what his eyes were telling him (Aragorn and Legolas, after all, we never clean when they arrived together from one of their adventures), and Aragorn resisted the urge to hold his hands out beside him and turn around. He had a feeling the elf really wanted to walk around them to be sure they were not hiding any dirt behind their backs or inside their clothes, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. A bemused expression adorned Elrond's face as he watched the servant's cool examination of his youngest and the prince. 

Finally, apparently satisfied, the elf smiled. "Welcome home, young ones. Make sure you drink the tea, Estel." 

"Yes, Celboril," Aragorn replied, rolling his eyes. The servant bowed out and closed the doors behind him, a "thank you" drifting to his ears just before the doors clicked shut. 

Elrond crossed to the tray and picked up one of the cups. "Drink up, Estel," he bid, holding out the cup to his youngest, his eyes sparkling with the amusement he managed to hide from his face. Aragorn took the cup without argument. "And you, as well, young prince." 

With a rueful smile, Legolas stepped forward and accepted his cup of tea. They sat while Aragorn hovered over the tray, picking at pastries. Both elves gave him amused glances, then the elf prince turned to Elrond. "Where did the twins go?" 

Aragorn went very still. Elrond glanced marginally back towards the human before he answered. "They went on an errand to the north to deliver news to the Dúnadain." 

"What news? When will they be back?" the young man asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Legolas as he munched on a sweet pastry, his tea in hand. 

Elrond gave him "the look" and he slid down to sit properly. "I'm not sure. You are well?" 

The young man nodded. "I am well, Ada. All better." 

Deep blue eyes, a shade darker than Arwen's, stared at him, searching him for the truth, and he held the gaze, more than willing to give the elf this assurance after all the worry he had caused him. The elf lord smiled. "Good. We can talk about it later, if you wish. Now, tell me, what has happened since you left? I know you too well to think no ill befell you." 

"Now, Ada--" began Aragorn, only to cut off at the elf lord's look, a look that said denial was futile because he would not believe it and would not rest until he had the full story anyway. With a sigh and a wry glance towards Legolas, the ranger began. To save time and effort, he told all, starting with the orc attack in the pass and finishing with being found by Raniean and Trelan. 

When he finished, Elrond had an odd look on his face. If the ranger read it right, his father was caught somewhere between amusement and concern. Concern won out. "Estel. Let me see your hands." 

The human flexed them as he presented him to his father. "I'm fine, really. King Thranduil's healers did a good job. It's Legolas you should be worried about." He cast a mischievous look at his fair-haired friend, consequently catching the dark look Legolas aimed his way. 

"What does he mean?" 

"Nothing, my lord," the elf prince assured. "I'm fine." 

"Fine," Aragorn agreed, still grinning, "except that he will never be able to show his face in Mirkwood again." The human laughed. "Mayhap Durin will accept him at the Lonely Mountain. They're connected, after all." 

Legolas growled at the human, but Elrond interceded before he could jump his friend. "What is he talking about, Legolas?" 

"A tattoo," the elf admitted with a sigh. "It's gone now." 

"It was made with tar," Aragorn volunteered more quietly, his expression serious and his eyes guilty. Legolas had not told him about that particular injury. It had taken an inquisition of the healers to discover it, prompted by the tender favor the elf prince had gifted to the arm for nearly a week afterward and his repetitve trips to the healers. "By that woman." 

Elrond frowned at his human son, noting the abrupt shift, seeing the shadows that crossed his eyes. He glanced at the elf, noting he was uncomfortable and leaned forward. Perhaps a change in subject was in order, for now. "You said her name was Kaialian?" 

Aragorn nodded, prying his gaze up from his hands. Legolas asked, "Do you know her?" 

"Hers is an interesting tale," the elf lord began slowly, his gaze distant. It was disturbing to find out that she was responsible for causing his son and his friend pain. He had hoped she had disappeared to come to terms with what had happened. "It started long ago." 

"How long is 'long,' exactly?" Legolas questioned with an amused glance at his human friend, one that was returned wryly, the reference a familiar and long-standing joke about the different perceptions of time between the two races. 

Elrond chuckled slightly. "Roughly five hundred years." 

"But she is human, Ada," Aragorn insisted. "How was she even still alive?" 

"Sorcery," Elrond answered. "The race of Men have long desired to live as long as the Eldar, to cross to Valinor or remain forever with dominion over their race, free to gather power for all time. The Kings of Númenor started it long ago, and the Nine followed, accepting the Rings of Power, and fell into Shadow, but it did not stop with them. Others sought immortality, and there were those who were willing to help, those with the power to do so, who would see souls locked eternally in torment." 

"What does that have to do with Kaialian?" Legolas asked, frowning slightly. "Surely she did not seek immortality. She was crazy, certainly, but I did not think she had always been so." 

"No, she did not." Elrond fell silent, his eyes dark as he contemplated the past. Aragorn glanced at Legolas, who shrugged slightly. Neither had expected the story would upset the elder elf. Both waited, eyes never leaving distant blue. "There was a time when she had scorned those who sought such things through unnatural means. She had all she wanted in her family. They were her life. That was her downfall." 

"What happened?" 

"She lost everything she had ever counted dear," Elrond answered. "War came from the north and the Dúnadain went forth to meet it and drive it back. Mannyn, her husband, and Kaiman, her son, went with them, determined to protect her and the other women and children from the encroaching shadow. Years passed and the battles continued, driven on by hate and anger, for the people out of the north had long held ill favor for the Númenóreans they felt had displaced them, and their passions were flamed by the Dark Lord's minions, seeing in them a way to weaken their enemies. She was left to wonder after her family. None could be spared to bare messages to love ones in distant lands, lest the presence be missed and ill befall them. 

"Mannyn was counted a strong and gifted warrior among his people and led the Dúnadain with him in relentless attack against their foes, pushing them back time and again, only to be swept back. Finally, after much time and effort, they succeeded in pushing their enemies back and secured a hold they could defend. It was in the final battle that he fell and his son took up the mantle of leadership. Too late, some reckon, Aragorn," his eyes flickered in amusement to his human son, "the First arrived with more aid, but his arrival brought an end to the war and all was won. Those who remained, who had survived, were free to return home, victorious. 

"Kaiman remained behind to help care for the dead. In the confusion and joy over victory, the rest of his people forgot Mannyn's son yet lived, and bore back to their village Mannyn's sword and tidings of his fall, bringing no word of her son. They assumed. . . . Of her son, she assumed the worst since he had not brought back his father's possessions and it was long ere he returned to his home, having fallen in love with another of his kin from a different village while he was away and pledged himself to her in troth. 

"When he returned to his home, intending to announce his good news to his mother, all had moved on and Kaialian had left her people to find a new place, free from her grief. It did not work as she took it with her, and she could find no relief from the pain. Kaiman could not find her, for she left no word, and went instead back to his wife, where she bore him a son. He was named Marryn, and in his time continued his line." Elrond paused. 

Aragorn took the opportunity to interject a question. "Does that mean she might have been saved?" He could not imagine what it must have been like to lose everyone, to be stuck with that grief. It was strange to look at his torturer as a tortured being, strange and uncomfortable. It was tragic to think that it all could have been averted if only she had not hidden. 

"One can always change, my son," Elrond replied softly. "She lost her husband to the war, but she lost her son to her own grief. It twisted her fair heart and turned her against her own. Hatred festered and grew within her, resentment towards all men, the males of her race, for taking her love from her, for hurting her. Deep in her heart, she determined all men deserved to be hurt as she had, and she first set out to seduce them so she might betray their love. Years passed and seasons changed, and soon that was no longer enough for her. She sought out other means, but she was advancing in years and her beauty failing. 

"She was sought out by a sorcerer of great power. He promised her eternal beauty and eternal life. She could work her revenge through the ages. Blinded by grief and anger, she could not be dissuaded, though some tried, and she accepted his gift and returned in form to the height of her beauty. She was young again, and moved once more in search of her next victim." Elrond stood, then, and poured himself some more tea. "And that is where she fell from the knowledge of the wise." 

Legolas shifted. "What did he give her?" 

"The Stone of Life, often forged into a necklace, to be worn by its bearer forevermore. Once accepted, the stone can never be removed, the gift irreversible. She was doomed to spend the rest of eternity in her tortured existence. The stone feeds off the energies that prompted its acceptance, trapping her in her desire for vengeance, her desire for pain and blood. Before long, she would no longer have wanted it; she would have _needed_ it, required it to go on, consumed by it and unable to die if she was denied." Sad blue eyes regarded the two before him. "Taking what was never meant to be held has dreadful consequences that endure. It is never worth the sacrifice." 

Aragorn leaned back, overwhelmed by what he had just learned. Legolas sat staring into the fire, attempting to contemplate what horror could have possibly pushed that woman into such a life, and found it quite difficult, the pain so sharp. Aragorn felt he knew. He shook his head of dark thoughts. "What about her son? Does his line still continue?" 

The elf lord jerked his thoughts back from wherever they had wandered and regarded his human son. "A son was born to each in succession for the last five hundred years. They used to live near here, in the north past the Shire, but Nairyn moved a few years ago ere you were born and took his son with him." 

"Who was his son?" Legolas asked. 

"They called him Jans." 

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged startled looks. 

*~*~*~*~* 

A grunt escaped Elladan's lips as he hit the ground hard, his hands unable to catch his weight as they were still secured tightly behind his back. His left arm protested fiercely, and a thud next to him heralded Elrohir's arrival. Both rolled and pushed themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly as they attempted to get their feet to bear them, their minds working faster than their bodies could obey. 

The twins ran quickly across the uneven ground before them, not entirely sure where they were going though they had traveled these lands before and not particularly choosy, so long as it got them away from their captors. 

The land dipped, then climbed, and a small hill rose out of the ground before them. Small flowers, colored in various shades of pink, yellow, and white, blanketed the area, but they were more a hindrance than anything else. With winter in full swing, the flowers were wilting, and their graceless sprint through their midst left a clear trail behind them for their captors to follow. 

The sound of rapid hoof-beats behind them drifted to their ears, and the elves attempted to speed their pace, hoping to find some land that would offer better shelter before they were found. Neither was entirely sure what their captors wanted, the men not particularly talkative in the days they had spent with them, but both knew they did not want to be subjected to their mercy. Foreboding whispered at the back of their minds. 

They rounded a fairly tall and steep embankment and darted down a rocky valley, their steps pounding against the stone in the silence. Elrohir slipped, and Elladan halted, backtracking to his brother's side. The younger elf shook his head, but the elder ignored him and did his best to help his younger brother to his feet. If they could gain a little time, they could remove the ropes, but they could not take the risk of pausing long enough to accomplish the task with pursuit so close behind them. With Elrohir back on his feet, they continued running. 

A rushing roar, long familiar to the twins, could be heard before them, and their pace quickened as they approached the Brandywine, hoping to find their salvation in some way, shape, or form around the riverbank. 

What they did not count on was a welcoming party. 

Both elves skidded to a halt, slipping as their balance shifted and the ground gave way before their momentum, but they managed to maintain their footing and face their adversaries still standing. Wide eyes took in their surroundings, noting they had no hope of overcoming the force arrayed before them. Automatically, they turned back the way they had come. 

The remaining members of the group rode forward on horseback, cutting off any thoughts of escape in that direction. Reluctantly, they held still as both sides converged. The leader, a man they knew as Conyc, swung down off his horse as four people moved forward and grabbed their arms. He approached them, a sneer on his face. 

"So eager to escape our company, are you?" he asked. "Without repaying us for our hospitality?" 

Elrohir fixed the man with a level stare. "Your 'hospitality' leaves much to be desired, Human." 

Conyc stepped closer, the same cocky smile the elves had grown used to adorning his face. "But you can't leave yet, Elf. My Master wishes to speak with you. It's not polite to keep him waiting." 

"Kidnapping isn't exactly considered 'polite,' you know," Elrohir rejoined, garnering a casual glance from the man before them. "Most people consider it downright rude." 

"I can guarantee you'll be quite . . . interested, in what he has to say," Conyc stated, his voice silky. "And until then, you'll just have to put up with our hospitality a bit longer. No more running away." His smile became wicked, then he turned his back on them. "Take care of them," he ordered, then swung back up on his horse. 

Where the first blow came from, Elladan could never quite say, but they came hard and fast with nary a break, and soon he had no need to worry about any of those things. He had no need to worry about anything. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Aragorn's mouth dropped open. He could not have heard right, could he? Legolas had told him about Jans, the man who had distracted Kaialian while his friend tried to get him to safety. "It could not be the same one," he said, glancing questioningly at his father. 

Elrond looked at them. "I could not say." 

The human looked back at his friend. "But if they were related, they were but meters from each other the entire time." 

Legolas shook his head, his expression sad even as his voice was wry. "If we did not know before, this proves it: the Valar have a wicked sense of humor." 

The ranger overcame his shock enough to lean back and grin. "Must be where Elves get theirs from," he muttered playfully, then dodged the blow to his head that Legolas aimed his way, laughing slightly. It felt odd to laugh after what he had just learned. 

"Watch it, human," Legolas warned, a dangerous glint in his eyes that Aragorn recognized easily. He grinned cockily. 

Before he could open his mouth, Elrond intervened. "Did you two have lunch?" 

"No, Ada," Aragorn answered. "We decided not to stop." 

"Aragorn was too cold," Legolas added, a wicked smile on his face. The ranger glared at him, their positions now switched. 

"Come," Elrond bid, doing his best to ignore the friends' antics and turned to leave the room. "There is more to be had than tea and pastries. We can continue our discussion over lunch." 

Still bantering lightly, Aragorn and Legolas followed the elven lord out of the room and down the hall, turning into the kitchen and through it into the smaller dining room used when it was just the family and was too cold to eat outside (a practice which had only been in existence since Aragorn had arrived, as the cold did not bother the elves). They seated themselves, and food was brought in shortly thereafter. 

Aragorn smiled gratefully at the elf who placed a plate of sliced meats and cheese before him, earning a smile in response. Elrond placed his elbows on the table and regarded both younger beings with a stern gaze. "I will, of course, want to examine both of you. I know you too well to think you would be honest with me about your aches and ills." 

Dark gazes were exchanged, but both elf and ranger knew it would do no good to protest at this point. "Yes, Ada," Aragorn said, his voice blending with Legolas' "Yes, Lord Elrond." The elf smiled. 

Then the young man looked up, suddenly intent, as his mind turned back to other matters. "What news did Elladan and Elrohir take to the Dúnadain?" he asked. "Nothing bad, I hope." 

"Nothing terrible," Elrond comforted. "The normal news, mostly, happenings around Middle-earth that might benefit the north. Rumors and the like. I imagine Halbarad will be more than willing to fill you in once you return to your kin, but I forbid you to think of such things while you are still on vacation." Aragorn glared at his father, prevented from responding by the meat that was still in his mouth. Elrond held up a hand. "And before you protest, nothing ill will befall your fellow Rangers if you wait in the uptaking of your responsibilities another day or two. They have lasted this long, they will not disappear in a day." 

The young man glared a moment longer, then rolled his eyes and swallowed. He recognized the beginning of the same argument his brothers had used when they had left Mirkwood, and while Elrond had not turned to that route yet, he had no desire to hear it again. His brow furrowed in consternation, though he could not quite figure out what he found so vexing about being forced to spend time with his friend. Principle, maybe? 

"Do you know when the twins will return?" Legolas spoke up, breaking the silence that had fallen over the small group. 

The elf lord hesitated, that shadow the ranger had noted earlier reappearing in deep blue eyes, and this time he recognized it for what it was. Aragorn leaned forward. "Is something wrong, Ada?" 

Elrond sighed and shook his head wearily. "I do not think so. Travel over Middle-earth is rarely constrained by time limits." 

The human frowned. "What do you mean? When did they leave?" 

There was that hesitation again! It spiked worry through Aragorn's heart. "About three months prior." 

The young man's eyes widened. "But it does not take that long to deliver a message!" he exclaimed. 

"Maybe they were sidetracked," Legolas reasoned, cutting in quickly, not entirely willing to believe there was not a perfectly valid explanation that did not simply assume the worst, though his own heart did a worried flip. "Mayhap they ran into old friends or the weather proved ill. They might have stayed on with the Rangers instead of simply returning." 

"Yes, but they would not stay gone three months with no word," Aragorn countered, the worry changing to alarm as he realized all was not well as he had hoped. The twins would cause all manner of trouble, but they would never purposefully worry their father. 

"Relax, my son," Elrond bid calmly, placing a hand on his youngest's arm. "Legolas is right. There is not necessarily cause for concern just yet. Mayhap they will ride into Rivendell tomorrow no worse for the wear." 

The young ranger subsided with an anxious frown, pushing his worry away with great effort. It was easy for both elves to see that, while he would love nothing more than to accept that explanation, his heart would not let him. "Mayhap, they will, Ada," he said after a moment, swallowing hard as if the very words themselves threatened to stick in his throat. 

The elf lord smiled softly and stood. "Finish your lunch, then come to my study. I will examine both of you once you have finished here. I will know if you seek to avoid me," he warned, leveling them both with a stern glare, one eyebrow raised. 

Aragorn smiled, making a valiant attempt at regaining his former good humor. "Us, Ada?" he inquired with weak incredulity. "Why, we'd never." 

The smile widened, then he left, the door closing quietly behind him as he made his way back to his study--up a flight of stairs, second door on the left. Aragorn sighed as the door closed, slumping in his seat and dropping any act of nonchalance. 

Legolas looked at him sympathetically, his own concern darkening his eyes. "You don't believe they will return, do you?" 

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "Nay, I do not." Silver eyes looked up at him quickly. "Do you?" 

"No," the elf prince answered with a sigh. "Something has gone wrong. They would never worry their father so if there was no problem. But what may have happened between here and their journey to the Dúnadain?" 

The young man gave his friend an exasperated look that said quite clearly that that was a stupid question. He shook his head. "Legolas, it's the twins we're talking about. There are miles between here and where the Rangers make their camp, more than a day's travel even on horseback, and you can ask what could _possibly_ happen between here and there?" 

A smile tugged at Legolas' lips. "My mistake," he said. "Obviously, I meant to ask what could _not_ happen." 

A short laugh escaped Aragorn, ending in a snort. "Obviously," he agreed dryly, then he stood. "Let's go get this examination over with. We'll need all the time we can get if we are to convince Ada to let us go after them." 

Legolas stood, too. "Oh, so you wish to discover firsthand all the trouble that can be managed between here and there. Imagining it isn't enough, hm?" 

"Right," Aragorn agreed glibly. 

"Valar save us." 

Aragorn grinned at the elf over his shoulder. 

*~*~*~*~* 

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_Review Responses:_

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__Elfmage: lol. Obviously, you know I can't answer your questions. That would ruin the suspense. *g* An official disorder, I believe. Hehe. I'm flattered beyond words. 

Ancalimawen: My intenton was served! Yes! Lol. *smiles widely* I shall, I shall. 

Rangergirl: Thank you. There are three writers I have found that I can go to sleep and wake up and say, "Ooh! It's posting day!" Lol. There are about a handful more that I can say I would get that reaction from me. . .if I ever knew when their next post was going to show up. *g* lol. I'm thrilled my writing has that effect. I have a confession: there was very little thought put into the banter. *shrugs* It pops into my head as I write and ends up on the page. I swear. *g* 

Shadowhunter: A high compliment, indeed. *bows* I thank you. 

Red Tigress: *chuckles* Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I've seen my summary (not the exact summary, mind) on other works, and depending on my mood and current level of boredom, I either skip it entirely or take a chance. . . . None of the ones I've found I been exactly stunning, except perhaps in how truly awful they are. If I wasn't busy with more important things, like making sure my chapters are post-worthy or finishing the chapters that still have to be written, the first thing I'd do is come up with a better summary. Thank you for taking a chance on it and sending me a review. *g* I hope my work continued to be worthy of such praise. 

Grumpy: lol. And you know how close Gandalf is. *g* Creeps are good. *grins wider* At least, from my perspective. 

Lauren: I didn't forget you, honest. *smiles apologetically* Okay, well, maybe I did. But that's just because it was late and I was in a hurry and by the time I had that "oh shit" moment, it was already thirty minutes too late. Hehe. Those movies you mentioned gave me the creeps, just from your explanation. The only Steven King novel-turned-movie I've ever seen is Christie. I might keep it that way. *g* Did you print out the last story? How many pages did it end up with? I'm curious. The original version had 221 pages without the additions and changes I made. Lol. Hm. Sorry, guess they can avoid them. *shrugs* They'll get into enough trouble later on that missing out on a few orcs now won't make that big of difference. *g* lol. I'd make a comment about one of your comments, but I don't want to ruin any surprises. 

Now I think I'll split. Ta. 


	4. Rain

This has taken a good while to write. When I said it was going to be late, I actually hadn't thought it would be this late. I was thinking a day, tops. I was simply going to revise the chapter I already had written, rewrite a little of it, adding a few parts that needed to be expanded upon. Well, that didn't work. I scraped it and drafted an entirely new chapter, which happened to decide it wanted to be anal. Meaning, it became two. Not only did it become two, it changed the story enough that I'm going to have to alter every single chapter after it. *glares darkly* 

What that means for you all is that posts are going to be later. I thought about this between other things, and I've come to the decision that for the next two to three weeks, I'm only going to post one chapter. Now, hold on. No freaking out yet. There's a reason for this. There is absolutely no way I can keep up the every other day posting. School has work I must do unless I want to fail and screw myself to hell, pardon my language. I get rather liberal when I'm frustrated. Anyway, I have two options: I can either push it back to the every two day posting schedule I used with OMAN and hope I can make the posts, or I can post one chapter a week for two to three weeks and see what happens. If I can make nearly as much progress as I think I can, I can return to the every other day schedule I want to do. If not, I plan to return to every two day posting, mostly because I refuse to be posting this thing for the better part of the entire 2004 year. 

Please be patient. I really can't afford to fail, and I still have to get on the ball with applying to colleges. Which means writing even more than I already do on topics I'm not particularly fond of. *sigh* On the upside, you've got a new chapter. Yay! Of course, I don't think it's my best work, but hopefully its not too boring. 

*collapses backwards in exhaustion* Responses are at the bottom. Please review. I desperately need to know I'm not doing this for naught. I think I might cry. (The _whole thing_! Agh!) 

Enjoy.****

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**Chapter 4**

It had taken them the better part of three days to find the rangers, even with Aragorn's skills and knowledge and Legolas' keen sight; the remnant of the Dúnadain hid well and left little sign of their passage, changing locations frequently so it was nearly impossible to predict where they were going to be. Yet Aragorn was not chieftain for nothing, and he had followed the broke trail with only mild difficulty, leading them easily--if a little slowly--to Halbarad and the small group he had traveled with, where they were greeted warmly and spent the night after learning of the twins. 

The elder ranger had nodded at their inquiry. "Aye, Elladan and Elrohir stopped by a little over two months ago with a message from Rivendell. After their news, my friend, I am relieved to find you well. They said they were in no hurry and remained in our company and assisted with some less than pleasant duties for a little under than a week. It was at that point that we crossed paths with a group of elves traveling to the Havens. The twins left the next day, continuing west with the small company to bid farewell to some old friends. I did not think anything was amiss." 

"We did not say their was aught amiss, dear friend," Aragorn had replied, a slight smile appearing on his face, most visible in his sparkling eyes. "They have simply gotten so lost in their merry-making that they have forgotten to not worry their father. Lord Elrond wishes them to keep in better touch." 

A smile had touched the elder ranger's face and he had chuckled quietly. "I wish I could be there to see their faces when they learn Lord Elrond sent their 'little brother' to retrieve them, dragging them back home like errant elflings . . . by a child." The last had been added slyly, a taunt obviously oft heard, and the group laughed. 

"I will account it for you fully upon my return," Aragorn had assured. "You are sure you can manage?" 

"Go, Strider. Twenty years we survived in your absence; twenty days or twenty weeks more will make little difference." 

The younger ranger had shaken his head ruefully and conceded defeat. "Very well, my friend. I would swear you have been consorting with the Lord of Rivendell in my absence by your talk. I thank you." The other had simply smiled. 

The next day they had ridden out, heading for the path often tread by the elves traveling to the sea, their passage swifter without the need to follow a well concealed trail. However, Legolas had thought news of his brother's safety would have eased his friend and possibly convinced him to travel back to Rivendell instead of continuing this search. Yet when he had suggested it his friend had simply shook his head and replied, "I did not worry for them two months ago." The obvious implication was that he feared something had befallen the twins after they left the rangers. The elf wondered what other fears chased themselves around the young man's mind. 

Legolas chased such thoughts from his head. They a had new concern, one Aragorn did not seem keen on heeding: a storm was coming. In fact, it was the same storm Legolas had noted on their way to Rivendell, and the same one Elrond had warned them about as they parted, partially why he had been reluctant to let them leave on this self-appointed errand. 

*~*~* 

Lord Elrond watched quietly from the steps of his home, his expression grave, as his youngest and the man's best friend deftly prepared their horses for departure, securing the packs to the saddles (an unnecessary addition for Legolas in deference to the possibility of human contact outside the rangers since such had proven wise in past) with an ease born of familiarity and repetition. Neither spoke as they worked, and the elf lord did not attempt to break the silence. 

His emotions were in turmoil, peace a luxury he had been unable to claim since Aragorn had left on that scouting mission to the north less than a year prior and returned a skittish shell of his former self. That he had finally gotten the young man back only to face the possibility of losing him again tore at his soul. That he faced the possibility of losing the twins did not sit any easier with his heart, then throw in the prince, who had practically become another son to him, and he felt like a fair reward would have been to have leave to run screaming through the valley, tearing his hair out and dropping all semblance of decorum. It was what he felt like doing, though none of that showed on his face. 

Dark blue eyes followed the human's movements, taking in the stiffness of his fingers almost unconsciously, a consequence and natural part of the healing from the injury the young man had been subjected to. Unfortunately, use was the only way to ease it, and it was best he do so, no matter how much he would like to pamper him. The human was, for all intents and purposes, well. Never before had he felt such disappointment in the fact, for it effectively removed all basis for his denying their request. 

Even checking Legolas (he hated himself for actually _hoping_ to find something wrong with the prince and would never admit he had done so) had yielded nothing he could use. The worst of the elven prince's injuries had been the mountain tattoo he had received at Kaialian's hands, and even that was barely discernible. The healers in Mirkwood had done a good job removing it. The only evidence that it had been there in the first place was red, newly healed flesh and a lingering tenderness that neither hindered Legolas' movements nor prevented the elf from traveling. 

Physical health aside, he had tried to see if there was a mental reason, a psychological reason, why they should be forced to remain. It had been a boon to his soul to see the fear, the _terror_, he had seen in his youngest's eyes gone, the child he had known shining through once more in the man he had grown to be. He seemed to have found a new strength through the ordeal, perhaps one he was not even quite aware of, and the only thing that troubled him that the elf could see was guilt . . . and fear for his brothers. Legolas seemed to have suffered the most from the ordeal in Mirkwood, but even then he could see that it would be more damaging to hold them back. 

Elrond fought back a sigh as he acknowledged he would have to let them go despite his concerns and fatherly impulses to the contrary, and buried the guilt for hoping to find them unwell for a time when he could deal with it in private. Their minds were made up, and (as he so often reminded the twins) Aragorn was a man now and Legolas no longer an elfling; both had to make their own decisions. 

_Besides_, he added to himself with resignation, _I would have to drug them, tie them to the bed, and post a guard at their side every hour of the day and night, and even then I think it would not stop them, only delay the inevitable_. 

Although, he could not say a delay would not be a good thing. Elrond's eyes drifted skyward, his keen eyes catching the first wisps of dark clouds that hovered just past the lip of the valley, waiting to spill their fury over the lands. He could feel the threat of the storm in his bones, a foreboding vibration that set his teeth on edge, the danger it presented a nearly tangible taste in his mouth, yet he could not bring himself to demand the friends wait until the storm had passed, for even as the thought crossed his mind he knew it would bring only heartache. 

He had the horrible feeling that whatever he did, he stood to lose at least one member of his family, and possibly all. He knew he could never stand being responsible for causing Estel to blame himself for the death of one of his brothers, did not even want to contemplate what would happen. . . . So he held his tongue and pleaded with his eyes that Estel make the choice he could not. 

Finished, Estel turned to look at him. The young man smiled in what he obviously hoped was a comforting manner and was, after a fashion, but it was lost on the elf lord, his fears unable to find their ease in a show of confidence by one he was destined to love and lose. "Do not worry so," Estel admonished, his voice lightly teasing. "You will get gray hairs." 

The elf lord swallowed hard, then forced a small smile as he descended the few steps between him and two young ones. "I wish you would reconsider," he answered. "There is a storm approaching; a fierce one, I fear." 

Estel glanced up quickly, an automatic reaction, and dismissed the storm just as quickly. "We will be fine, Ada. Perhaps we will meet the twins leaving the valley and be back before it has a chance to show its true colors. Besides, I have weathered many storms in the Wilds, and I have always returned whole, if not undamaged." 

"I would have you weather this one here." 

The human sighed, closing his eyes a moment in grief before fixing steady silver orbs on the elf lord. "I know." His voice was soft, regretful. "But I must know they are all right, no matter what I must endure to find out. I could never forgive myself if they fell and there was something I could have done to stop it. My heart tells me I cannot wait for this storm." 

"I know." 

"I will keep him safe, my lord," Legolas spoke up. "I will make sure he returns. I promise." 

"And I will make sure he does not do anything foolish while fulfilling that promise," the young man interjected before Elrond could comment. "We will return, Father. Be at ease." 

Elrond watched the youth a moment, seeing the changes maturity had brought that exceeded the young years. He nodded and smiled wryly. "It is the state you shall arrive in that concerns me." 

Mischief suddenly swirled through silver eyes. "Oh you know, Ada. A piece here, a piece there. . . . Nothing too difficult for Middle-earth's best healer to handle." 

Legolas stifled a laugh and the elf lord raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

Aragorn sobered with a sheepish smile and shrugged. "Well, we did finally arrive uninjured after traveling between our homes, you know. Perhaps we can achieve yet one more miracle." 

Elrond smiled. "Do you have everything?" 

"Yes, everything," Estel answered. "Food, water, clothes, blankets, extra cloaks, various paraphernalia that has proven useful over the years, and plenty of bandages and herbs." 

"That last is relative, my son," he warned. 

"Not to worry, Lord Elrond," interjected Legolas with a cheeky grin. "I have more." Aragorn shoved him playfully. 

"Then it appears you are set," he agreed, bowing his head in defeat. The smallest of smiles graced his lips, then he looked up and did the hardest thing he had had to do in years: he bid them farewell, knowing even as he did so there was a fair chance he would never see them again. "May the Valar guide your path." 

*~*~* 

Strong winds buffeted him, whipping his long hair around to lash his face and obscure his sight. He squinted his eyes against the stinging wind. It was cold--nearly fiercely cold, in fact, though it did not bother him--but if it bothered Aragorn he could not tell. The ranger rode on, slightly in front of him, unfazed, his attention never wavering and Legolas wished he could see through the mask the human wore to see if he was truly well. 

The wind howled through the trees, an eerie whistle that sent shivers racing down one's spine, screaming its fury to those mad enough to brave the elements, impatient at being restrained, restricted, forced to alter its path. The trees bent to its relentless force or broke beneath its unyielding fury. A whipping _crack_ resounded behind them, giving warning seconds before the a crashed to the ground. 

Legolas chanced a glance back and saw a once proud beech splayed across the path, its truck split down the middle forming a dark wound on the light gray bark. It was far too close to a battle wound, a gruesome strike by an enemy blade that could steal a life, to keep a shadow of dread from pulsing in his thoughts. He turned away quickly. 

The winds picked up, swirling and desperate, clutching insistently at what it could reach; yanking his cloak, his hair, trying to snatch him from Ardevui's back as he raced along behind his friend. The trees groaned in his mind. They needed to get out of this storm, and quickly. 

Then the sky burst open. Between one moment and the next, the world seeming to hang suspended for the blink of an eye, rain surrounded them. It plunged them into a misty white haze that obscured their surroundings. Within moments, both companions were soaked to the bone, the drops nearly close enough to let them swim. The ranger shuddered convulsively. 

Legolas frowned. "Strider! We cannot stay here! We must find shelter!" Lightning flashed and thunder punctuated his words with a sharp boom that rolled into a deep growl. 

The ranger glanced back at him, water running down his face. His jaw was clenched tightly, but whether from anger, pain, or cold Legolas could not tell. His eyes were dark but expressionless, closed from any reading of his emotions even if the elf had been able to see clearly; he nodded. 

The elf followed as the human altered their course, leading them off on a slightly different heading than previously, putting them on a less defined and narrower path. He rued his lack of knowledge of this terrain, disliking the fact that he could offer little to no help if there was trouble, unable to imagine what shelter they could find along this path or what they now headed towards. 

The wind battered the duo relentless, driving into them with terrible ferocity. The elf leaned forward to relieve the pull, making himself smaller, and could see Aragorn hunched on Hodoer before him. The cold bit into his skin and he could only imagine how his human friend was faring, so much more susceptible to the elements than he was. He feared the young man would be ill before this ride was over. The horses labored faithfully, their sides heaving, steps seeming to pause in the force of the wind, and Legolas glanced around concernedly. They needed to get out of this storm, but he saw no shelter. 

"Strider!" he yelled again, meaning to make sure the human heard him, knew what was needed, the name snatched away so that another elf may not have heard it. 

To his surprise, Aragorn turned, a frown marring his face, confusion and irritation showing briefly. He opened his mouth to answer--only to be interrupted by a great, rending crack from nearly right on top of them. 

Legolas' head shot up, searching out the source of the sound and was nearly unseated as Ardevui suddenly bolted forward, fleeing the sound. Hodoer reared in agitation before following his cousin, the great tree crashing to the wet ground at his heels, the branches whipping through the air lethally. Legolas turned, desperate to see that Aragorn had escaped, that the tree had not crushed him beneath its great weight. 

The branches reached out, stretching for the fleeing horse and rider, trying to catch their feet and drag them under its massive, crushing weight. The branches snagged Hodoer's hind legs, making him stumble. Legolas' heart skipped a beat as the horse fell, only to resume at a terrified pace when both emerged beyond the tree. Quickly, he urged Ardevui back towards them, arriving beside the human in time to steady him as he swayed. 

The young man's hands trembled in reaction, his eyes wide--stunned The elf pulled Hodoer to a halt, the horse as unsteady as the man. "Strider?" Legolas prodded. 

Aragorn looked at him, then shifted, quickly sliding from his horse's back and stumbled, moving towards Hodoer's head. Alarmed, Legolas followed. "Aragorn? Are you well?" 

The human ignored him, mumbling rapidly words the elf could not make out, as he cradled the horse's head, rubbing his nose then down along his neck, soothing the frightened animal. "You're all right," the young man breathed, the first words that actually made sense. 

"Ar--" Legolas moved forward to get the man's attention again, but Aragorn abandoned his position quickly and walked back towards Hodoer's hindquarters, trailing his hands down the horse's heaving sides, trying to comfort the animal with his touch as he moved away from his immediate sight. 

"You're all right," the human said, voice just a little too desperate to be calm, but it worked for Hodoer, who seemed to simply want to hear his voice. Aragorn swayed as he walked and did not seem to mark it. 

Legolas followed, the rain still pounding down in sheets around them, driven almost horizontally by gusts of wrenching wind, anxious about his friend . . . and realized the reason behind the human's actions. Blood welled on the dark, wet coat, coaxed from dirty scratches down the backs of his hind legs and washed the same way slowly by the water. From knee to hoof, Hodoer's legs were scraped raw, red and tender-looking, painful, with blood just seeping past the abraded skin of the deeper slashes. The ranger hovered about the injuries, not seeming to want to touch them. His fingers ghosted over the bloody welts, his concerned eyes shining brightly even in the gloom with a raw pain the elf could not place having seen before. He did not seem to know what to do. 

The elf prince finished approaching him, moving closer until he was in arms reach in case the man fled again, and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. He hoped to get his attention, hoped to ground him as he seemed lost. "Estel?" he said as softly as he could through the rain, his mouth close to the man's ear. He hoped the elvish would get through to him as it had in the past. 

Silver eyes slid hesitantly to him, seeming reluctant to fix on his form, eventually locking on his own eyes. For what seemed an eternity but was only a handful of moments, Aragorn looked directly at him without seeming to see him. His friend's gaze was vacant. Fear began building in the elf, rising like a pool as the rain fills it after a drought. Even as the rain continued to fall, the fear continued to rise. Legolas wanted to move, wanted to shake his friend until he got a response that showed his friend was with him; but he could do neither, his friend's steady stare holding him in place with the weight of an entire mountain, locked to his place with only his growing fear for company. 

Just when he thought his fear must overflow its brim, when the thought he must scream or move or go insane, the eyes shifted and the light that was his friend returned. He waited breathlessly for his to say something--_do_ something. "We must make for Amon Sûl," Aragorn murmured, stilling staring unwavering into the elf's eyes, this time with the steady desperation as a man seeking not to drown. 

Legolas did not move, more concerned about the young man at the moment. "How do you fare, my friend?" he asked warily. 

The human blinked. The elf prince had not realized Aragorn's unblinking stare had unnerved him until the spell was broken. "I am well." 

The wind howled about them, blowing cloaks and hair, twisting it around anything within reach. The trees swayed. Leaves that had fallen to the ground with the fall flew past in a breathless tumble, rustling rapidly as they passed. The rain continued to soak them, continued to pelt them with super cold darts that stung the skin. Yet for all these things affected the companions, Middle-earth and all that was on it may as well have stood still. 

"You expect me to believe you escaped unscathed after what I saw happened to Hodoer?" Legolas demanded, his tone somewhere between sarcasm and exasperation, but was too lacking in force or feeling to be either. 

A faint smile touched the man's face. "Yes?" 

"'Yes'?" the elf repeated, incredulous. 

"It's just a scratch." The man's lips twitched spasmodically. 

Legolas just stared at him. _He's joking? Now? After scaring me half to Mandos and back?_ The idea was absurd. Then the realization that that was what he had been waiting for, that it was--impossibly--a good thing, sunk in and the elf smiled. He friend was with him. Which meant he could focus on other things. "How far is Amon Sûl?" 

"A little less than a mile. We should be able to make it quickly enough on foot. If Hodoer can walk." The last was added with an anxious frown at the steed, who voiced his opinion with a low chuff and impatiently stamped his right front hoof. 

"Good," the elf replied, casting a measuring glance at the fallen tree before focusing determinedly on Aragorn. "I want to examine you as soon as we reach shelter." 

Silver eyes snapped around to glare at Legolas. "You're as bad as Ada, you Silvan Elf. You need not mother me." 

Carefully, Aragorn walked to the front of his steed and coaxed the horse to take a few small steps, his eyes on the horse's legs, watching how he walked. Legolas saw the same thing he saw and the elf wordlessly stepped forward before the ranger could move and began undoing the straps that held the packs, attaching some to his own saddle and simply shouldering others, before moving to release the saddle. He pulled it cautiously from the steed's back, careful of Hodoer's injuries as the human murmured to him soothingly, and settled it in his grasp. He quietly bid Ardevui follow him as they started forward. A nod and a grateful smile that momentarily dispersed the shadowed concern in the ranger's eyes were his reward. A fine reward. 

Legolas followed silently, watching the pair before him closely to ensure neither man nor horse collapsed without his knowledge. He listened to the steady stream of elvish his friend was murmuring to comfort the gentle beast and could not help but remember when he had done the same years earlier, when they were both younger and the only thing he could offer was his presence as the young man fought for his sanity. It was not a fond memory. It was words that came later, after healing had begun, that brought a soft smile to his face. 

_"Whenever I had not the strength to go on, I always heard your voice, and I knew I was not fighting alone, that the strength was there. All I had to do was find it. . . . You were my strength, my friend. I could not have come back without you."_

The storm had not lessened one bit as they traveled. If anything, it grew even fiercer, as if angry they were seeking shelter. It was difficult to see, even for him, but he could still see the pair before him, and his stomach seemed to drop into his knees when Hodoer stumbled, jerking the human off-balance and nearly sending them both to the soaked earth. Then they steadied, and he had to wonder what Aragorn would have done if the horse could not walk. He held onto the saddle tightly to keep from wringing his hands as he watched them stagger in the wind, nearly falling more times than he cared to count. The trip seemed to take forever. 

Finally, a good deal longer than even Aragorn had expected, they arrived at Amon Sûl--Weathertop, men called it. The elf thought he could reason why it was called that now, but the reason it would have been named that in the days of its construction eluded him, for surely it had had a roof? He wondered where they would stay as the ranger led them around to a natural, covered corral that provided shelter from even the driving rain that continued to pelt them. 

Aragorn immediately set to work tending the injuries, all the while talking softly to his faithful friend as the horse turned his head to watch his master, ears pricked and closely listening to every word. Legolas smiled fondly as he tended Ardevui and removed their packs, piling them in a corner. 

"Thank you, my friend," he told his horse with a smile. "You're a wonderful sport to put up with so much." His smile widened as she nudged him with her nose, then licked him thankfully. "Rest well, Ardevui." 

The ranger commandeered one of his cloaks once he was finished bandaging Hodoer's legs and spreading a slave over his haunches and draped it over Hodoer's back, checking carefully to be sure the cloth was covering the wounds he could not bandage properly and that the cloak would not be blown away by intrusive wind. Once he was satisfied, the young man turned and joined Legolas by the packs, the elf standing patiently near the wall. 

"You make a good mother," the elf prince commented blandly, his amusement belied by his sparkling eyes. 

Aragorn turned a wry glare on him. "You should know," he countered. 

A brief smile broke the fair being's solemn countenance, then he stepped forward slightly and gestured at their surroundings. "Are we to stay here? Your father would not appreciate the decor upstairs." 

The human snorted. "Whatever gave you that idea? He's rather fond of open-air terraces." He bent to gather his bags, and his companion followed suit, securing them over shoulders to free their hands. 

"Indeed," Legolas answered. "Of course, the weather is more accommodating in Rivendell." 

The ranger adopted a look of surprise. "You mean you don't like the cold, the rain, the fierce winter gales that chill the bones? We humans can't get enough of them." 

The elf chuckled appreciatively, then regarded the man levelly. "You're unbearable when you're sick," he observed darkly. 

"I thought I was always unbearable," countered the man quickly. "But, fortunately for your peace of mind, I know a place that's clean and dry enough to put your anxieties to ease . . . a you can primp to your heart's content." 

Legolas stumbled in surprise. "I do not 'primp'," he objected sharply, glaring darkly at his human friend. He raised his hand to smack him and was thwarted as the human disappeared back into the swirling, freezing mess that comprised the storm. The elf prince followed quickly. 

The storm was, if anything, even worse after the brief respite from its fury, making the elf distinctly uncomfortable. He wondered how Aragorn could stand it, especially since the elements effected humans so much more than elves. Of course, rangers wandered the wilds at all times of the year, so he was probably used to it--to a certain extent, at least. It occurred to him to wonder how the young man had survived so many years in such bitter cold (and this was not even the worst of it) when he got sick so much. _Something to look into later_, he decided. 

He was slightly startled when Aragorn lead him to the near opposite side of Amon Sûl and pushed aside what appeared to be solid rock before disappearing. He stepped closer, frowning slightly as he tried to work out what he had seen, the rain distorting his vision. He grinned ruefully as the true nature of the trick was made known to him, nothing more than a cleverly designed tarp, securely attached and weighted so it stayed in place, expertly installed to appear flawless from a distance (even up close if one's eyes were not keen enough). 

_A neat trick_, he admitted as he, too, stepped inside, _but_-- 

"It's a cave." 

Rich laughter greeted him in the darkness of the stone cavern, and it allowed him to locate the human who knelt in the middle of the floor, making a fire. "It's an enclosure." 

"It is made of stone under earth with only one exit; it is a cave," the elf prince insisted, vehement. 

Aragorn cast a wry glance over his shoulder at the elf that hung in the doorway, still holding the tarp partially open as if in preparation to bolt if shadows popped out of solid wall to chase him with grasping hands. He nearly laughed at the mental image that created, but settled for primly stating, "I notice your definition of a cave keeps changing." He struck the flint and was rewarded with a spark, the nearly indiscernible glow deftly coaxed to greatness by the skilled hands of the ranger. "It is a shelter," he added, almost as an afterthought. 

Legolas glared at the human's back, the expression going unnoticed, then sighed. "It will do." A smile was his answer, thrown quickly over the young man's shoulder, as the elf approached him. He smiled as he remembered the ranger's earlier comment. "And your hair is even unrulier than normal," he teased, reaching out to touch the matted strands in back. He jerked back sharply when the man hissed and leaned forward, curling in on himself tightly, his head by his knees, his hand going to his head. 

"Aragorn?" The elf immediately dropped to his knees beside his friend, learning forward in an attempt to see the other's eyes. "Strider, what's wrong?" 

Aragorn did not answer and Legolas turned back to have a look himself. As he did so, he caught a hint of red on his hand, the one that had touched the human's hair. It was not hard to determine it was not his. The fear that had faded with Aragorn's return to normal reasserted itself, coming back with a vengeance and wrapping its icy fingers around his heart, squeezing . . . squeezing. . . . 

He swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down, ruthlessly banishing his illogical fears. He had suspected the human was hurt, after all, and the man was obviously still able to function so it could not be that bad. Head wounds usually bled alot, he knew that, and there was not even that much blood. 

He glanced at Aragorn. The human had not sat back up, but his breathing--while a little heavier than usually--was once again slow and even, his body not so tense. The elf put a questioning hand on the ranger's shoulder and received a nod in response. There was not going to be a fight, then. Good, he could simply treat the injury and see for himself how bad it was. 

Carefully, so as not to cause more pain than necessary, he parted the hair, trying to find the wound. It was slightly difficult because of the blood, but the incessant rain had kept it from drying, so he knew his task could have been harder. Once he did, he sighed in relief: it was little more than a flesh wound; one of the branches had knocked him in the head with enough force to tear the skin. It would heal quickly. More worrisome, not to mention more painful, was the knot he felt around it. Still, it would need to be cleaned. 

The elf moved quietly to their packs and grabbed some of their water, a rag and some bandages, then settled down near his friend's head to begin cleaning the wound. As gently as he could, he washed away the matted blood and pieces of bark, almost papery in texture, and wrapped a light bandage around it, necessary only as a guard against dirt. The only sound that broke the silence was the inconsistent crackle of fire, sometimes sparking louder, sometimes softer. Throughout his ministrations, Aragorn had not moved, apparently quite content. The elf was sure he could not be comfortable. He rested a hand on his back. 

"Aragorn?" 

"Hm?" 

The sound was sleepy, barely aware, and Legolas smiled as he looked at the young man. "I might suggest you change clothes before you sleep," he answered. 

Slightly bleary silver eyes turned to look at him though the human did not uncurl from his fetal position. "I'm not sleeping." 

"No, currently you're actually wet. And cold." Neither seemed overly important to the obviously half-asleep human and the young man just stared at him with a look that said "make your point or leave me alone." He raised his eyebrows, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Unless, of course, you _want_ to get sick?" 

The ranger blinked slowly, the meaning behind his words seeming to take a moment to sink in. When they did, Aragorn's only response was to painfully uncurl and move to the packs; slowly, one might add. 

Legolas frowned, caught somewhere between amusement and concern. "Are you all right, mellon nin?" 

"Hum?" The human startled, as if surprised from a daydream, and snapped around to look at him in the middle of pulling out a dry tunic. "Oh, yes." A wan smile touched his lips. "Just tired, I guess." 

"Not sick?" 

He shook his head, returning to what he was doing with the packs. "Injuries and stress don't go over well with human bodies," he said by way of explanation. 

The elf nodded. He glanced towards the closed tarp. "Well, it looks like you have time." The young man opened his mouth. Legolas interrupted before he could argue. "The storm doesn't appear to want to end anytime soon and we may as well stay here. Hodoer needs to rest, too, and you can't tell me you'd risk his health in this storm." 

Aragorn looked vaguely amused, like someone who has just heard something odd and cannot decide whether they should laugh or not. "I wasn't going to say anything of the sort," he agreed, barely controlled laughter in his voice. "I was merely going to ask if you wanted me to get out your clothes while I was at it, or if you would prefer to stay wet." 

The elf blinked, then had to struggle not to smile. "Wretched human," he grumbled, sitting back off his heels with an un-elf-like plop. 

The man grinned. "Presumptuous elf." 

He walked over and dropped the elf's bag at his feet before continuing past him and dropping his own bag and bedroll. The elf turned away to rifle through the bag, pulling out a fresh outfit, which he changed into quickly, then arranged his clothes carefully so they would dry. When he turned, Aragorn was already sequestered in his cloak and bedroll, the cloth pulled tightly around his body. His wet clothes were spread carelessly nearby, and it was not difficult for the elf to see why the human always looked dirty, whether he was or not. 

He cocked his head slightly as the man's eyes drifted closed and frowned. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked. Humans were always hungry, yet neither he nor his friend had had anything to eat in nearly a day. 

"Not hungry," Aragorn murmured, already well on his way to being asleep once more, his eyelids leaden and far too heavy to open. 

"You need to eat," Legolas insisted, agitated. 

"You can," the man deflected. He turned his head slightly, body tensing in a slight stretch before he curled in around himself, pulling his legs in close to conserve body heat. At any other time, the elf would have found this amusing. 

Instead, he frowned and watched the human closely. "Are you cold?" 

A mumble that may or may not have been an assent drifted up sharp elven ears, the effort to actually form words apparently too great, or his mind too far away. Legolas' lips pursed in agitation. The young man had no appreciation for how fragile humans were. He winced at his own thoughts. Of course Aragorn knew how fragile his life was. He was reminded constantly, the fact of his mortality driven more sharply into his mind with every moment he spent in the company of an elf. What was it like to know you would one day lose everything? 

His brow creased as he stood to get his own bedroll, grabbing an extra blanket unconsciously. He did not like to consider what would happen when Aragorn died, when he left for the halls of Mandos at the end of his life. It was an uncomfortable topic, and the times when it seemed most likely he would pass, Legolas was usually in the same position or too busy to dwell on it. Why should he dwell on it now? 

_Because I almost lost him in the mountains. He almost fled this world and I could not help him. I could not even ease his pain, nor hold him as he passed, for he would have simply stopped breathing and been gone._

Legolas looked down, slightly surprised to find himself standing over the ranger's still form. He laughed at himself slightly, then dropped to his knees and draped the blanket over the sleeping young man, tucking in the edges carefully to keep out the cold. Then, determined not to think of the worst, the elf spread his own mat out and lay on it, turning so he faced his friend. He watched the human closely, taking in the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the peace on his face as he warmed up and relaxed inside the warm blankets. Slowly, he slid into elvish dreams. 

Outside, the storm continued to rage. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

__

__Elfmage: Um, Jans is the young man who helped Legolas escape with Aragorn when they were under the mountain. He fought with Kaialian while Legolas dragged the ranger free. Thanks. *g* I hoped Kaia's little background stuff wouldn't go over too badly. I'm glad it was interesting. 

Red Tigress: I'm usually lazy, too. Which is why it isn't already proofread and edited and completely ready for posting. If I did that, and felt no obligation, I'd probably get cold feet and never post at all. Hm, well, if you want, and you can think up a different summary, you're welcome to it. *g* lol. Feel free to drop reviews. I truly do go back and read them. 

Grumpy: lol. Yes, the twins are truly in trouble. Did you have any doubts? I do? You like my Elrond? Wow. I have a horrible feeling I do him better than Legolas. Did I do him right this time? 


	5. Fall

*blinks at screen blankly* Hi. *long moments pass in silence* 

I had a whole bunch of things I was going to say, and decided to say none of them. Hehe. Hm, I was going to post this last night, but my brother was monopolizing the phoneline and computer; really annoying. 

Considering this chapter was nearly completely written after I posted chapter 4, it should never have taken a week to write it. The last five or so pages took me five days to come up with. _Five _days and half a dozen rewrites. Sheesh. Somehow, each version seemed worse than the last until friday when I just decided to write it and that's what you're getting. If it's crap (and it maybe, I just can't look at it anymore) I'm sorry. It's still better than it was, so if you don't like it, just imagine what the original version was like. *eyes go wide in horror* 

Lol. Hm, slower posting is definitely worse for me than you. It means I can't get rid of this story for months and months. And I _really_ want to be done with this. *glares darkly at nothing in particular* How crazy is that? I haven't even finished writing this and already I don't want to look at it any more. I don't want to _write_ anymore, and yet ideas for stories keep popping into my head that just _beg_ to be written. I had a really odd idea for an AU, one with a mean Legolas, but I'm not even sure why or what or how and I dare not think of it, because if I do, I'll never get this done. And yesterday, a nice little scene with Legolas and Thranduil popped into my head that was just so cute that I _had_ to write it down so I wouldn't forget it, and I have no idea what I'm going to do with it. 

And now that I've continued in this pointless vein for a fair couple of minutes, I'll let you get on to the story. If I hold on to it too much longer, I might read it again and decide I don't like it and not post it, so have fun. And don't forget to review. In fact, when you review, don't forget to point out anything that I've left out or not touched on sufficiently. It's dificult to keep all the details in mind while I'm writing, and sometimes little things get lost. *g* Responses are at the bottom. That seems to work well. 

*crosses fingers and pushes button* 

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**Chapter 5**

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****The land was flat, barren . . . empty. A drought had stripped the land of life centuries ago and life had never returned, the land too far gone to be recovered. The people had fled, seeking lands with more opportunity. But even the dead have their uses. 

A man stood in the middle of these barren lands, the sky dark and the stars extra bright above him, casting a ghostly glow over the lands, perfectly calm. His horse stood nearby, moving anxiously in the unnatural lands, raising and lowering his head irritably with nothing to hold his attention. Not even grass grew. Dark gray eyes scanned the horizon, finding no break in the endless expanse of death before him. Even the wind was still. 

It was a place good for conducting business far from the prying eyes of the ill-educated, those fool enough to believe that peace was theirs and no trouble could touch them, that evil had fallen with Sauron at the end of the second age. It was perfect, yet irritation curled through him. 

He was a young man, only just having reached his twenty-sixth year, yet he held a position of power and trust with his lord, his skill having elevated him beyond his years. The trials he had endured had prematurely taken the innocence from his face, leaving him lean and stern. He did not mind. For him, it was an asset. What did bother him was incompetence in his subordinates. 

His eyes narrowed. His contact was late. 

The distant roar of rapidly approaching hooves drew his attention to a dark point on the horizon, one that approached rapidly. He glanced up, taking in the position of the stars in the moonless sky. His face set, and he locked away any and all emotion. One did not get to where he was by appearing weak. 

Before long, the rider became visible: a man on a chestnut colored horse dressed in various shades of brown and tan, wrapped warmly against the chill of winter. He had brown eyes and hair a couple shades darker in a quasi-stupid face. He was a mingler, then, one sent to gather information among the commoners. Torl had long thought those people were a touch too stupid to do anything truly useful. He wondered if he would finally be proven correct. 

The pair came to a rapid halt a little less than a dozen paces from his position, and the man slid off the back with the air of a man who expected a lightning bolt to shoot from the sky and strike the creature at any second. His posture was slumped, pleading, and Torl already did not like him. He opened his mouth-- 

"You're late," Torl interrupted, his voice low and cool, before the other could speak. The result was near what he would have expected if someone had kicked him in the jaw, for the man stumbled back and his mouth closed with a nearly audible snap. 

The man wringed his hands together, then stepped forward once more and bowed hastily. "Forgive me, my lord. It will not happen again. There were problems with the road, a storm, it could not be helped, but I will be sure--" 

"Pray don't continue," Torl interrupted again, nearly failing as he attempted to keep scorn off his face. "Your excuses mean nothing." He paused to see if the other would try to offer more excuses, but apparently this pathetic excuse for an agent possessed some sense, for he merely cringed. Torl's eyes twitched, and he decided the best thing to do was end this meeting quickly. "It is time," he announced crisply. 

The man startled. "My lord?" 

"Do you need your ears checked as well as your head?" 

"N-no, my lord." 

"Good." Torl turned to mount his horse, only to be halted by a timid question. 

"Do the orders stand, my lord?" 

Dark gray eyes made even darker by irritation turned to look at him. This one, it appeared, was even more daft than the others. He would be glad to tell his lord that the man was incompetent. "Have you been given new orders?" 

"No, my-my lord." 

"Then they stand," he ground out. 

"Yes, my lord." The man bowed quickly. His brown eyes flickered briefly, then he fled with all the speed he could muster, gone even quicker than he had arrived. 

Torl stared after him, an odd feeling tickling at his senses; he brushed it aside as irritation and pulled himself onto his horse's back, turning to head to his own duties. Yet he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something, something important. It was a feeling that followed him well across the dead plains arrayed before him. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Elladan fell to the ground with a hard thud, his hands secured behind his back and unable to break his fall. Elrohir was dumped down behind him, thrown to the ground in irritation by their captors. The days had stretched into weeks, and each new attempt at escape had been met with the same result: failure. 

Boots appeared before his face, and he rolled backwards, ignoring the spark of pain up his arm, to look up at the face the boots belonged to. Had he not felt so angry himself, he might have quailed at the fire in the man's eyes. As it was, he merely glared back. 

"You are determined to try our patience," Conyc observed darkly. "So be it. You will reap the consequences of your actions. After all, we only need you alive." 

He walked away and others grabbed him, forced him to walk or be dragged between them, and his pride would allow him to suffer no such indignity. They led him and his brother to a tree. His hands were tied above his head, secured over one of the limbs, and Elrohir was placed next to him. 

The first blow plowed into his stomach, knocking away his breath, and was followed by an uppercut that rocked his head back. Blood dripped from his nose and he saw spots, little ones like gnats. Yet they did not just use fists. Before long, he prayed for oblivion . . . and was denied, the pain swirling into the hazy darkness with him. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Wind whistled past him, a high wail that made his ears ring. He heard it--he could not feel it. Slowly, he opened his eyes. 

The first thing he saw was white. He looked up--down?--into white nothingness that both expanded, endless, to the horizon and went nowhere at all, held claustrophobically close. Glancing to either side produced the same empty space. Frowning, disturbed and confused, he sat up. He appeared to be seated on solid floor, yet the same whiteness showed beneath him. His feet, as he stood up, were both seemingly firmly planted and hanging in midair with nothing to support his weight. 

He swallowed hard, his emotions hovering in limbo, mixing and jumbling together, all crowding him and hanging back until he felt he was falling--falling . . . yet no bottom appeared in sight. It was still white, all white, and his feet were planted. He held out his hands and turned slowly in a circle--and could not be sure he moved. His eyes scanned desperately about him, and he turned again, hoping to uncover something he had not seen once; find a door, a crack, a smudge, anything. . . . 

It was strange that what caught his eye a moment later was white. He stopped spinning, his eyes locked on a space in the distance, a point of brighter white, of light that burned into his eyes and brought no pain. He squinted out of reflex, trying to see more clearly and began walking towards it. Whether he got nearer or it grew or something else entirely occurred, he could not say, but it expanded to encompass his sight and slowly resolved into a familiar form. 

A woman--no, an elf-maiden stood before him. Long golden hair flowed past her shoulders, softly framing a perfect face. Her gown was white, yet seemed even purer than the flawless walls, defining the maiden before him perfectly. Bright, true green eyes stared at him solemnly, the color of verdant growth, of life in the spring in the Shire. He knew her. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, startled at the sound of his own voice, which was both ringing and dampened, a contradiction he did not know what to make of anymore than anything else around him. What was going on? 

She did not answer, merely watched him, her shimmering emerald eyes filled with sadness, a strange darkness that seemed to lend depth to elven eyes without detracting from the true color of their eyes easily found in hers. He found himself drawn to them. 

He looked at her intently, searching her gaze with his own, hoping to unravel the mysteries that held her sorrow. He felt pulled, and suddenly rushed towards the green orbs, lights flashing in them, streaking past him, force or friction pressing against his lungs, and for a moment he could not breath. He was drowning . . . only to blink and find himself in an unfamiliar land. 

The grass was dry and brittle, the air just tinged with the last vestige of winter cold. The trees looked worn and dead. He looked around, startled, just as lost as before, though he was now in a different place--a real place, if either were. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, making his way through the trees. There was no one near. Nothing moved. The air itself was dead, devoid of spark, of breath. His lungs labored, and yet he did not breathe, nor did he lack air. No breath stirred from his lips. The grass did not shift beneath his feet. 

Shadows pressed into his mind, drawing his eyes towards two dark smudges, poignant against their backdrop but indistinguishable from their surroundings--yet another contradiction he could not explain. He took a step closer. 

A light flashed before his eyes. Sound intruded. A scream--a crack! A blur of movement, of color, drew across his vision, dark and light. A cry-- 

His step faltered. All that stood around him were the trees, silent sentinels long past their prime, sickened and withered, too tired to stand guard and warn of darkness, of danger. Their presence spoke a slow death, of decay hidden from sight. Sound did not intrude. He stepped. 

A sudden flash of red, a hand, a _snap!_ Pain, a lance of fire. Crude laughter, there then gone, snatched yet lingering. Someone moved. Words, "You'll pay for that." Too fast. A rustle of chains, a snap of whip, a painting, an image, a cry-- 

His body tightened, spasming as if to gasp for air, attempting to pull in the life-giving gas that did not exist. He could not. He breathed out. His back tingled, a fairly electric charge in stripes down his back, sparking with half remembered pain. 

Trembling, he stepped forward, determined to see what hung just beyond his grasp, then again. Each step bringing a new sound, a sight, a taste, a smell, all in horribly rapid succession, striking into his mind, piercing his brain, blinding, hurting-- He shuddered helplessly. 

A face! Terrible and stern. A sneer, bright eyes, then pain. 

Darkness, a terrible darkness that continued even when the eyes were open. Red eyes, glowing from the abyss. Pain, stinging, lashing pain that lingered. . . . 

Chains bound his arms, bit into the skin of his wrists. He could not breath. The pressure was too great, biting, squeezing. He gasped-- 

_Crack!_ Fire lashed up his back-- 

Skittering, the ominous low clicks of stone giving way. The ground disappeared under his hands--falling, falling, then pain. The air was forced from his lungs, wrung from already starved lungs. Laughter, pain, lights, screams . . . fists-- 

He stumbled and fell, collapsing to his knees as if in great pain. He felt none, but his body could no longer hold his weight. He was drifting, fading, _dying_. . . . His eyes tracked hopelessly over the ground, searching for something, anything, his mind a floating jumbled mess that whirled beyond control, mired in painful thoughts too terrible to bear, taunted by half recalled sights that sent terror racing through him with the force of lightning. He flailed helplessly, sinking. . . . 

His eyes landed on the suspended forms and froze. In an instant, he felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, his mind's frantic tumblings no longer even a breath of a thought, a stirring of the faintest of breezes. 

Two figures hung before him, familiar, yet beyond his grasp to identify. Their arms were suspended above their heads, their bodies covered in a motley collection of bruises and sores. Horrible wounds decorated their torsos, dripping blood long dried to their toes, which dangled, just brushing their ground. 

They had long dark hair pulled back in intricate braids. Blood caked the sides of their pale, ashy gray faces and bound the dark strands close to their heads. Hollow, glassy blue eyes stared in horror out of unblinking sockets. His eyes drifted down to the only relatively clear skin across their chests, darkened by purple bruises in a kind of cloud across their bodies. Writing, crudely carved and horribly elegant, was scribbled across their chests, standing out in angry red as it formed cruel words. It was ancient elvish, and the speech was Black. _One Ring to rule them all, one fate to claim them; one man to doom them all, and in the shadows leave them._ Mocking laughter touched his ears. 

He gasped and jerked away-- 

*~*~*~*~* 

Aragorn sat up, a silent gasp on his lips, drenched in a cold sweat. His eyes took in the stone that surrounded him, the dance of red flames off the wall, the quiet hissing of the fire, but he only saw that last image: Elladan and Elrohir, dead, words of doom written across their chests. Dark laughter echoed hauntingly in his ears. 

Shakily, he pulled himself to his feet and crossed hurriedly to the far wall, nearly collapsing on the packs in his haste to get there. Trembling hands fumbled with the water canteen and the cool liquid splashed across his hands before he managed to bring the neck to his mouth. The water tasted like acid as it slid down his throat but he drank it anyway; then he tipped back his head and emptied the contents on his face. He leaned forward as the water dripped from his nose and chin and struggled to calm and steady his breathing, ignoring his now soggy clothes. 

That was by no means the first dream he had had, but it was certainly the worst. It was also different. Before, the dreams--while still filled with pain and blood--had held a sense of doom, of impending death, a feeling that danger was near but not quite certain, not quite there. As time had progressed, the night visions had acquired a sense of urgency, of certainty. Neither was what he felt now. He felt finality. He felt whipped, taunted with what he could not reach. That had been a warning, a message, and he knew what it said. 

Aragorn scrubbed his hands across his face and shifted until he sat on the floor. He pulled his legs up close and wrapped his arms around them. The fire had warmed the cold stone nicely over the hours, and the air was nearly hot, but he could not shake the chill from his heart, his bones the physical actions the only thing that could lend him any comfort. Pained, he clenched his eyes shut and dropped his head forward to rest on his knees. 

_One Ring to rule them all, one fate to claim them; one man to doom them all and in the shadows leave them._

__

__The words played through his mind, twisted about by a heart that knew what they meant and did not want to accept it; a heart that searched desperately for it to mean something other than what he knew, what he feared. That Elladan and Elrohir themselves would tell him it meant nothing, that he was being silly, and Legolas and his father would agree, gave him no comfort. His heart would not be dissuaded, even as it searched. 

He _knew_. 

If Elladan and Elrohir died, it would be for him, _because_ of him. They would die as the price demanded of Shadow for the loss of the One Ring all those years ago by Isildur, his ancestor and forefather, the one whom was responsible for the continued existence of shadow, and he could do nothing to stop it. 

_NO!_

__

He slammed his hand into the ground before he even realized it and nearly yelped at the pain that shot up his arm, just barely choking back the sound that would alert Legolas that something was wrong. Of their own volition, his silver eyes turned to insure the prince still slept, that his movement had not woken him. 

Legolas slept on. 

Aragorn breathed out a quiet sigh, half from relief and half from despair. He knew he had worried his friend earlier, scared him even, yet he knew not what to say or do. Everything was happening so fast. Barely had he escaped one horror than he was thrown into another. It was wholly ridiculous. More than anything, he wanted to bare his soul to his friend, unburden his heart of his troubles, but he knew not what to say, how to tell his friend what he feared, knew, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the elf prince would try to brush it aside as nothing. 

He knew their death would be his fault; knew, also, that he had to find them and stop it. Less clear, was how. How was he supposed to find two elves when they had already left their last concrete location and the one they had supposedly been heading towards was safe? There should be no problem, no danger, yet he knew there was. They could be anywhere. If this was a test on his way towards that destiny he did not want, the Valar had chosen a good one. 

Idly, he rubbed his hand over the back of his head to relieve his frustration, feeling the lump that had formed there. It hurt nowhere near as much as it had earlier, and for that he was grateful. He had not truly realized he had the injury until Legolas had touched the back of his head, and the shooting pain that had erupted in his skull was not how he would have chosen to learn. He pushed himself to his feet, the restless agitation he felt inside forcing him to move. 

What if Legolas had been right? What if he missed them because he was out looking for them and they had ridden past miles to the north or south? Middle-earth was a large place, and there were many lands that one could pass in unnoticed. Yet what if he and Legolas were wrong? Why was he even debating the question when he already knew the answer? 

_Because I do not like the answer I have_. 

Aragorn hissed in vexation, annoyed both with himself and his train of thought. He needed something to do. With a last cautious glance at the elf, he moved to the doorway and slipped outside, emerging into a horridly chill midmorning surprisingly free of rain, the storm apparently having blown itself out sometime during the night he had slept through incredibly well considering how he awoke. Clouds still hovered over the sky, a depressing gray mass that floated almost listlessly and diffused the sun into a weak glow that struggled to light the surroundings. He turned and began walking towards the corral where they had left the horses. 

Hodoer still slept when he entered, but Ardevui turned to regard him with measuring eyes. He did not know how, but it seemed to him that the elven prince's horse had picked up its master's dislike and distrust of humans and was slower to release those prejudices than the fair being he considered his friend. Every time he looked into her eyes, he felt like he was standing before King Thranduil, waiting for him to pass judgment. 

He blinked at her, then continued over to his steed, skirting as far away from the temperamental mare as possible without even realizing it, and stood by his head. Truly, he hated to wake the faithful creature, but he knew better than to start examining the stallion while he was yet sleeping. A hoof to the chin had made sure it was a lesson he would not forget. Common knowledge said it was unwise to sneak up on a ranger; Aragorn had learned the same held true for a ranger's horse. His brothers had been highly amused once they got over being extremely worried when Hodoer had knocked him flat on his back because of his ignorance. 

The young man smiled tightly, forcing himself to focus on the tangible, and reached out to stroke Hodoer's nose, softly speaking in elvish, "Wake up, my friend. We've much to do, and I need to check your injuries." Soft brown eyes blinked open to stare at him, the horse's head slightly turned to better see him. "Has Ardevui been giving you a hard time?" 

He chuckled softly as the horse nudged him, making little noises that he took to be an explanation. He patted his neck. "Well, hold still. I shall attempt to get this over with quickly, then you can show her who's boss." 

An aggrieved snort followed him, and it could only have come from Ardevui. He resisted the urge to turn and see if she was glaring at him like he thought she was. Instead, he reached up and undid the cloak from his horse's back, pulling it off as gently as he could in case the fabric had stuck to any of the wounds. He did not want to reopen them with incautious movement. The cloak came away easily, and he was relieved the poultice seemed to have done its work well, the cuts mending nicely. He would need to put more on, but they could ride today if need be. It would do Hodoer good to be moving, in any case, to keep the injury loose. 

He nodded to himself, and trailed his hand down Hodoer's leg as he moved to check his other injuries, sliding down until his hands encountered the bandages. Slowly, he unwound them, taking the same care against pulling as he had with the cloak, and found that these had healed just as well if not better. After all, they had been nothing more than painful scratches. If need be, he could have run with these no problem, but it put the ranger's heart at ease to know his faithful friend was healing well. 

Tucking the bandages away to dispose of later, Aragorn stood. "I think you'll heal, my friend," he said, patting Hodoer's dark coat as he moved towards the only packs they had left in the stone hold: the horse feed. 

He pulled the special bags from the inner compartments and put two scoops in each, then approached Ardevui, well aware he had a better chance of getting the mare to cooperate if he served her first. She lowered her ears at his approach, but did not fight when he put the bag on, sliding her nose in, then passing the halter up over her ears to hold it in place. 

The young man patted her neck, and ignored her glare as he moved back towards Hodoer. "What do you think, my boy? Women?" He grinned as the horse moved its head up and down as if nodding, then slipped the feed bag over his head, as well. "Eat up. Perhaps, then, we can convince worry-wart Legolas to allow us to travel today." 

"I heard that, Strider," a voice called from the entrance. 

"You were supposed to," he returned without thinking, slightly surprised by the other's presence, then glanced back over his shoulder, concerned. "I had not expected to wake before you. Are you injured?" 

"And you say I worry too much," Legolas returned with a frown, walking over to check on Ardevui. "No, I simply expected you would sleep longer. How's your head?" 

"As messed up as ever," he replied glibly. He did not need to see his friend's glare to know it was there. Aware of how badly he had frightened the elf, he continued more sincerely. "Better. It was little more than a nasty knock to begin with, you know." 

"I know." 

Silence fell between them for a moment, and Aragorn wondered if he was the only one who felt the need to break it, to fill it with pointless chatter, if necessary; but Legolas did not talk, and he busied himself with spreading more salve across Hodoer's haunches and down the backs of his legs, wrapping a bit more linen about them to keep dirt off. When he was done, he placed the items back in his pocket from whence they had come and turned to find Legolas watching him. 

The elf studied him with a closed expression kept carefully neutral. "How are you?" he asked, his voice hesitant, as if there was a completely different question he wanted to ask and did not quite dare. 

The customary "fine" came to his lips, but something held it from vocalization, perhaps the hurt he saw hovering at the edges of his friend's eyes. "I've been better," he admitted slowly. Then he smiled ruefully and added, "I didn't need any more knocks to the head." 

"Don't we know it," the elf agreed, a smile touching his lips that did not quite reach his eyes. Blue eyes lanced into silver. "Don't worry about Elladan and Elrohir. They can take care of themselves, and no one's going to kill them before we have the chance." 

Aragorn sighed and laughed, feeling for a moment like he did not know where he was; it was strange to feel the urge to laugh and cry at the same time. He looked into Legolas' eyes soberly. "I'm glad you're with me, mellon nin. I couldn't do this alone." 

Legolas smiled, warmth showing in his eyes. "Well, good." Mischief sparked to life in the bright blue eyes. "Means I won't have to beat my head against a rock wall to get you to listen to me." 

"No," the young man agreed, following the elf as they walked back to the cavern. "Just a tree." 

*~*~*~*~* 

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Black orbs glittered in the flickering light cast by the fire. His hands hovered above a map of Middle-earth, a slender chain held in one with a pointed yellowish-green stone attached to one end. The glow that hovered about it faded away as his eyes were revealed. Obsidian eyes that sparkled maliciously stared down at the map. 

"Weathertop," he murmured to the cavern walls, his voice echoing and dying in the same instant. "They draw near to Bree." 

_Yes, they draw near_, he added silently, for his knowledge alone. _But they will find no safety there. I will make sure of it._

His eyes slid closed and the glow once more lit the semi-precious stone that hovered over worn parchment. Now, all he had to do was wait. The time would come, and come quickly, and then all would be his, delivered into his hand. Almost imperceptibly, the stone inched further along the map, tracing a route along the road. 

*~*~*~*~* 

The land was still, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic clap of hooves against the rain wet earth. It was early morning but the clouds hung so heavy overhead it was difficult to tell. A mist seemed to hang in the air, a hint of moisture that spoke of rain but was too fine to touch. The wind of their passage blew back their hair and cloaks, numbing what skin it could find. 

They had passed Bree late the day before, riding on after having the gate unceremoniously slammed in their faces along with the insistence that they were not welcome, an event Aragorn seemed to find somewhat perturbing, though he passed it off as a sign from the Valar that they should simply continue on to find the twins. That struck Legolas as rather odd as the human had never made such comments in the past, but his concern for Elladan and Elrohir kept him from arguing too much, and--if he was honest with himself--so did the fact that it was a human village. His experiences had been too far from pleasant for him to ever actually look forward to spending time in one. 

The land before them rolled away steadily, rolling away beneath the powerful strides of the horses, Hodoer showing no ill effects from his brush with the tree. Legolas suspected that was not because it was well, but simply because he was just as stubborn as his master. 

Weathertop was a faint memory behind them, the beginning of their third day out just dawning on their journey which had been accomplished with few stops for rest or food, though Aragorn had seen to the health of the horses with a nearly fanatical precision that the elf prince was not sure what to make of. It seemed nearly compulsive, but he could find no instance that gave precedent for it, and he was not sure what it meant--a fact that disturbed him, if only mildly. Humans were, after all, quite beyond comprehension. He simply liked to think he understood them better than most--or that he at least understood _Aragorn_. 

He glanced aside at him to find the ranger once more checking the fittings as he rode. Finding them secure and well-situated, he looked back up, only to glance down a few moments later and fiddle with something else. It was off-putting for the elf to watch the human so antsy, and vexing to realize he did not quite know its cause. He suspected what part of it could be, however, and could not let it continue. 

The elf prince waited until the human glanced back at him, knowing he would from observation over the last couple of days, and spoke when he caught the young man's eyes. "Perhaps we should rest," he said. 

The man frowned, then shook his head. "We should keep moving. I do not like these clouds. There is something foul about them." 

He could not disagree with that--had thought the same thing more than once, in fact--but, "You are unbearable when you are tired." 

"I am not tired." 

"Then what is wrong?" Legolas pressed, hoping the human would voice his concerns on his own. It was easier that way. "You are fidgeting worse than a century old elfling. 

"Truly? I have never met one." The ranger looked at him with innocent silver eyes. He had thought the young man had outgrown that look. 

He glared. "You are avoiding the issue." 

"What issue? There is no issue," he exclaimed quietly. "You asked a question. I answered. End of story." 

"Not end of story," Legolas persisted, frowning. "There are shadows under your eyes, and your back is tense. You keep playing with the reins as we ride and glance constantly down at the reins, the bridle, the leather--anywhere and everywhere so long as you do not have to sit still. Do not pretend there is nothing wrong." 

Aragorn was silent, and, as he stared ahead of him through the trees that buffered them on either side, he could not see his eyes to read his thoughts. For a few moments, he let the silence hang, let the human go over his thoughts in peace. When he determined enough time had passed, however, he spoke. 

"You never said why you were up so early that day," he observed softly, leaving an opening for the man to talk. He hoped he would; he feared he would not. 

Unexpectedly, the ranger reined Hodoer in and slowed his pace to a walk. Legolas followed suit, matching the other's pace when they stood side-by-side. Presented with the man's profile, the elf could better gauge his mood: pensive; dark. _He's brooding_, Legolas realized, his heart sinking without his permission. He waited in anxious silence, willing the human to speak, but knowing it would do no good to press him. 

"What would you do, Legolas, if you knew a loved one were in danger because of you, and there was nothing you could do to help them?" 

That was not what he had been expecting. A frown crossed his face. In fact, expected or not, he did not like this question, nor its possible implications. Still, he would have to answer, or he knew from experience the human would not continue. "In danger and nothing I could do?" he questioned, clarifying. A nod confirmed him. "I would find someone who could." 

"What if there was no one?" 

"That would depend upon the situation," he replied. 

Aragorn nodded, still staring unwaveringly ahead, his eyes dark. "What if you were the only one who knew they were in trouble?" 

"Do the other circumstances hold?" he asked. Another nod met his question. He sighed, taking care to keep the action as much from his friend as possible. It was worse than he thought. How he thought it could not have been too bad and so end up worse was beyond him, but it had happened. "I would go after them." 

"Even if there was nothing you could do?" the ranger insisted with a serious glance his direction, carrying a tone he recognized as the "I must be sure you understand what's going on" tone his father was so fond of when he believed his son was being thick. It was placing a question in a statement and allowed no evasion. 

Legolas nodded. "As would you." 

Aragorn nodded somberly, his face set and grave. The elf would have thought he marched to his death from his expression. He looked like he knowingly traversed this earth on a mission he would not return from. 

The elf sucked his breath in through his teeth abruptly and did not wait for his friend to continue. "Elladan and Elrohir will be fine," he insisted firmly, nearly harshly. "And so will you." 

The young man looked at him, a straight look, one of the first he had received in more than a day, Aragorn's eyes meeting firmly with his own. Silver eyes searched his, and he let his certainty show, hoping to comfort his friend in a way his words never would; Aragorn was too self-depricating and stubborn to ever believe what he did not accept, even if he wanted to. 

Something of the dark shadows drifted away, a tension that had coiled deep within the other's soul loosened and retreated, if only a little. It was a victory he would accept for now, one he intended to build on soon. It would have to start with finding the twins. 

Aragorn smiled, a small smile that spoke more for his gratitude than a boisterous one ever could. "Thank you, mellon nin, once again. I seem to need your encouragement a lot of late. 

"We are friends, Strider. It is what friends do; something you reminded me of years ago that I had nearly forgotten." He smiled back at the human. "And when we find your wayward brothers, we will simply have to give them a piece of our mind for worrying us so." 

The man's smile widened. "Likely they will simply smile and tell us it serves us right for making _them_ worry so much." 

"True." Legolas pursed his lips, thinking. "What excuse do they use for your father?" 

The human thought about that a moment. "Unless I am gravely mistaken," Aragorn answered. "The same one we use." 

"They use the "But it wasn't my fault" excuse?" 

The young man nodded slowly. "In fact, since they are older, they started it." 

"Hmm." 

"Do you think we should come up with a better excuse?" 

"Why?" Legolas asked, sounding startled. "It's true." 

"I don't think he believes it." 

The elf prince snorted. Privately, he did not think the elf lord would believe anything they said. Or rather, he did not think the elf lord could ever _accept_ anything they said, simply because it was difficult to believe they could get into so much trouble without it being their fault. Legolas was present, even, and sometimes he could not believe it. Often, he did not _want_ to believe it. "I don't think he will believe any excuse we make, my friend." 

"True." Aragorn was silent a moment, his mind twisting down its own peculiar path. "We could tie them to a pair of identical chairs in the gardens and paint them with berries and paste." 

Legolas laughed, thrown by the suggestion. "We should!" he exclaimed merrily. Then he turned thoughtful. "Though . . . I do not think they would find it nearly so poetic as we would." 

"Something different, then. It seems we will have plenty of time to decide." 

"Right," the light-haired being agreed lightly. "And more time besides because I still think we should rest." 

Aragorn gave him a sour look. "You mean that _I_ should rest, and I disagree. I still don't like those clouds, and I want to be able to return to Rivendell as quickly as possible. We can't do that without those troublemakers I call brothers." 

Legolas sighed and gave him a long-suffering look. "I had to try, my friend. I had to try." 

The ranger laughed. 

Suddenly, the world shattered. A whipping whir--like flimsy metal swung rapidly through the air--split the silence behind them, followed closely by a stinging _crack_ and a loud _boom_ that shook the earth and traveled through them to steal the oxygen from their lungs. It engulfed them in a cocoon of sound that was every bit as smothering as the thickest blanket. Fear shot down his spine. Ardevui and Hodoer reared before bolting forward, away from the sound ignoring the light that suddenly blossomed around them in their haste. 

It was not something one experienced often, the scarcity of the event doing nothing to detract from the certainty of one's conclusions. Anyone who had lightning strike close to them, within a mile, did not soon forget the experience. It drove home the superiority of nature like nothing else could and left its mark upon its victim forever. 

The horses knew it well, and that strike had fallen well within a mile. Legolas felt electricity dance across his skin, the hairs on his arms standing on end, and struggled futilely to bring the terrified steed back under control. She ignored his attempts and simply chased after Hodoer, The elf did his best to simply stay on, re-seating himself quickly and with more than just a little effort. 

Once more, Aragorn rode before him, Hodoer's speed surpassing his mare's, and he spared a passing thought that the stallion was apparently quite well to run so quickly. Wind whistled past his ears, erasing all other sound, barely audible past his still ringing ears. Everything was dim in his somewhat dazzled sight, but he could just make out the river. He had been hearing it for several minutes before the lightning had driven them forward. 

Another two struck behind them, felling a tree, and he glanced back briefly, noting the sturdy trunk that lay across the road, now blocking passage. Then his eyes were drawn ahead and he could see the bridge they were rapidly approaching, could see the rushing, turbulent waters that had risen with the heavy rains they had received that sped past just beneath the bridge, lapping at its planks. 

He watched with a growing dread as Aragorn pulled further ahead of him, Hodoer straining with all his might to go still faster. The human was simply holding on, body tense atop the panicked steed. As Hodoer reached the bridge, that dread turned to fear and his eyes stared wide as he felt the uncontrollable urge to shout to his friend, to warn him, even as he knew it would do not good. 

"STRIDER!" he yelled. "LOOK OUT!" He knew beyond a shadow of the doubt the words never reached him; knew that even if they had, there was nothing the human could do. 

He watched helplessly as Ardevui carried him closer . . . closer to the bridge; watched Hodoer carry Aragorn over it, his hooves clapping dully against the wood; watched as he dared to hope his fear was foundless and that all would be well. He watched when that hope was dashed and replaced with shock. 

Then a flash of lightning split the sky, diving before the fleeing horse in the flicker of an eye. Too close. Terrified, startled, Hodoer reared, backing frantically away from the horrible sound and burning light, twisting to get away. The human on his back was thrown forward, his hands pressed into the mane to keep from being flung over his head, then back as the steed darted away. His hands slid along the reins that were clutched before him but they could not save him. The aching appendages slid along the thin leather, finding no purchase, and Aragorn fell back over the railing into the crazy careen of rushing water below, slipping into the torrent with nary a sound. 

Numb, Legolas watched from atop Ardevui's back as she reared, her feet pawing at the sky, then fell forward, for a wonder going still, perhaps just as stunned as her master. 

His friend was gone. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

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__Red Tigress: I have a confession: I nearly forgot Legolas, as well. *shrugs sheepishly* The original version neglected the elf. Heh, yeah, Hodoer. I feel sorry for him, too. AH! *clamps hands over mouth* I just had a brilliant idea. *smiles* Thanks for the inspriation. Hm, well, I really don't' know what makes me comfortable. I prefer to post quicker, but posting slower if less stressful, so we'll see. I'll work it out. Yes, must work it out. . . . 

Tychen: Ironically, my mother hasn't said anything about how much time I spend writing in months. *smiles widely with surpressed laughter* But you're right. And there is plenty of boring stuff. Hopefully, I managed to build more tension here. *g* 

NaughtyNat: lol. Yes, that's what counts. Hehe. Star Wars just sprang to mind. The scene with Obi-Wan and Anakin at the arena? ~Obi-Wan: I was beginning to wonder if you had even gotten my message. Anakin: I sent it to Coruscant just as you requested, Master. Then Padme and I decided to come rescue you. Obi-Wan: *glances up at hands bound about his head* Good job.~ Hehe *giggles* Ai. Oh, don't worry about being off-subject. I'm utterly pathetic, but I like hearing about other people's lives. I have none, so I like to live vicariously. *g* Funny you should mention it being funny if Legolas had it. I actually realized just as I was about to post, that it would be better if Legolas was the one who was injured. The problem, was that I couldn't simply switch them, so Aragorn got another owie. Alas, the posting schdule is for me, not you. *smirks* I'm horribly pessimistic. If I don't feel obligated to post, likely I never will, so. . . . 

Grumpy: *bows* Thank you. *smiles brilliantly* Storms are tricky. Legolas. . . Legolas just lends himself to being a mother hen. Hehe. Mm, I love it when little things I think are cute are enjoyed. It gives me a warm feeling inside and I'm not quite sure why. Another thing to ponder over while I'm trying to come up with something for my college entrance essays. Ick. 

Nerfenherder: You wouldn't have by any chance gotten inspiration for your screenname from Star Wars would you? Take away "en" and you've got Nerf herder. Hehe. Han Solo. Em *shakes head* Sorry. Star Wars was my first love. I was just never very good at writing it. I love rangers, too. Originally, my favorite was Legolas (I wanna be an elf) but I now simply love Aragorn. We have lots in common. Makes it easier to write him--I can get inside his head. Consequently, there's going to be lots of Ranger angst. Legolas will just be included more because I don't want the elf to be left out. Hehe. Fun dialogue is fun. Bet you couldn't have guessed, right. Lol. Sorry, sorry. I could go on forever; it's because I'm so quiet. Really, but I'll spare you the pointless chatter. *g* 

Singing Wolf: I understand completely. I've been there. And I enjoyed reading your reviews. I'm glad you enjoyed them so much. Can't have a pathetic King. The problem as I see it, is that in making Aragorn competent, I go too far the other way with Legolas, make him pathetic instead. *rolls eyes* Would you be so kind as to warn me if I do that? Wack me upside the head or something? *puppy dog eyes* *grins* Pain is fun. Well, when it's bothering someone else, that is. *smiles nervously* It's that detail thing I get stuck on. *g* Your welcome. 

Aromene: lol. We think alike. About storms, and school. . . . And I actually think writing is more important, but I have to bow to the restraints of society in this. *g* Thanks. 

Konjurer: Thank you. It feels so good to hear my work is enjoyed so much. And I've felt the same thing. Em, did you accidentally hit the button? I hate it when that happens. *g* 

Rangergirl: lol. Has this put you out of your misery? *raises eyebrows expectantly* Gotta love Aragorn--in all his forms. *g* 


	6. Splash

Would you look at the time! So late.*sighs* I did not mean it to take so long. This chapter didn't need any great changes, just the normal ones (I'm too scared to make any sweeping revisions, anyway--I took me ages to write it the first time) and I had planned to post it fairly quickly. Two, three days later, say. Well, maybe I shall manage it with the next chapter; that one is fairly well revised right now, and if I don't get an attack of nerves, it should be ready no later than Wednesday. . . . That's assuming, of course, I don't fall asleep again. *rolls eyes* I truly can't figure out why I'm so tired. Even now. . . . 

*shakes self awake* Oy. Hm, please note I have never fallen in a river, never been in rapids, never tried to revise someone who is very cold or been licked by a horse. If I have screwed something up while dealing with any of the above, do tell. I like to do things right. And just so everyone knows, I try to keep a posting schedule because I'm horrible about procrastinating. "Oh, just a little longer, mom. I have plenty of time. . . ." *g* Say tell me to get my butt in gear, and we'll all be happier. 

*purses lips thoughtfully* If anyone's wondering if there's going to be a sequel to this one, the answer is likely not. If anyone is wondering if there are going to be stories after this one, well, yes. I just don't know when. Before I can even dream of writing another story, I have to finish the two I've started, one of which is this very story, and the other is an Aragorn/Arwen romance that I have to somehow get in the mood for. Romance just so isn't my thing, but after that, we're going to go time-traveling. *g* 

So, enjoy. Review. Responses are at the bottom, and I have to figure out what qualities or unique characteristics I have that will allow me to contribute to the University community. *glares disconsolately* Stupid colleges. So you'll cheer me up, right? 

*gives great big sad puppy dog eyes*****

****

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**Chapter 6**

"Move, you lazy beast!" 

Elrohir winced at the snap of the whip against the horse's hindquarters, his body remembring the pain of the strike even if he did not feel it. He felt Talme increase his step and did not fight the anger that curled through him, lending him an energy he did not have. 

Talme was his horse, a gift from his father, and the misuse of his steed burned his heart. He could not imagine his brother feeling any different, though it would perhaps be more complex. Falshov, after all, had been left behind. Neither twin had any idea of what had happened to Elladan's steed. Or rather, no suspicion that either wanted to contemplate. A twang of a bow, the whistle of an arrow, and a cry of pain that was suddenly cut short were all they had to work with. His mind would not turn to the most likely outcome. 

A groan drifted to his ears from before him, and he leaned forward anxiously, trying automatically to get a look at his brother's face before his mind registered his inability. All he saw was darkness. Frustration bit through him and he forced himself to rock, pretend nothing was wrong. Their captors were watching; they were always watching, but they did not know everything. 

After the twins' last escape attempt, these men had decided to take no chances. In an effort to discourage ambitious notions (and, Elladan suspected, to release their frustration), the elven twins had been beaten. Painful bruises covered their backs and chests, stomach, arms, legs. . . . Elrohir suspected Elladan had cracked ribs, but he could not reach his twin to check, could not see him, and Elladan would not answer. 

Cloth had been wrapped around their eyes so they could not see to run. Their arms were bound securely behind them, the ropes wrapped securely around their wrists so that he could almost clasp his elbows with his hands but could not take them away. These men knew their business well. Ropes attached to his arms were held by other men to keep them from fleeing, and though they were bound on the same horse, neither held any hope of escape. Even if Talme ran, they would be pulled back, yanked from the steed's back, and without sight or hands, they would not make it far; their captors were too skilled. 

Eventually, he determined attention had dimmed and it was safe to speak with his brother. "Elladan?" he whispered softly, for his twin's ears alone as their "hosts" did not like talking. 

"Mm?" 

"How fare you?" 

"Well." 

The younger of the two knew better and he frowned. "I do not believe you." 

"Then why did you ask?" The elvish words drifted back to him tinged with amusement and he could not help but smile slightly. 

It faded quickly, and his lips straightened into an anxious frown. "Please, brother, tell me how you fare." 

A sigh, more felt than heard, ghosted the air between them. "I am well, Elrohir. I have been better, true, but I have also been worse. In the middle is good." 

"I was hoping for something a little more inclusive, Elladan," responded Elrohir wryly, the instinct to joke prompting him. 

"You do not need to be burdened with my problems, brother." 

"You nift!" he exclaimed, rocking back slightly before edging forward; he felt like pacing, no matter how undignified it was. "I am your twin; your problems are always mine, just as mine are yours. Whether I or you wish it or not." 

Elladan chuckled softly, acknowledging the point grudgingly and certainly not aloud. "How are you?" he reversed, turning his brother's concern against him. 

The younger twin sighed, shifting slightly. He did not want to tell Elladan anymore than Elladan wanted to tell him, but he hoped that telling would get him the information he desired. "Sore," he answered reluctantly. "I would like to stretch and walk a bit, but before long I would likely be wishing to ride again and these sadists would probably hear nothing of it." 

"Likely." 

"Well?" 

"Yes." 

Elrohir frowned. "Elladan." 

The other was silent for a long moment, and Elrohir found himself wishing he could see the other's face since he could usually tell what his brother was feeling by his expression. They had grown up together. They knew each other very well, but even twins could not always tell the other's thoughts in blind silence. 

Finally, he spoke. "I, too, am sore," he admitted. "I wish to be back in Rivendell, confined to bed rest by Ada and driven crazy by Estel's antics. I wish we were far away from here in the shadowed forests of Mirkwood, pulling a prank that could possibly get us cast out. I wish we were being lectured about recklessness and acting our age. . . . I wish we were anywhere but here." 

Elrohir sighed, feeling the same, and dropped his head onto his brother's shoulder. "I know," he breathed. "What fortune was writ that so much ill would befall the sons of Elrond?" 

"All three of them," murmured Elladan, a hint of humor in his voice that darkened quickly as both their minds turned to the fate of their youngest brother. When last they had seen him, shadows had hung about him, and their only hope was vested in the friendship between man and elf prince. It was a narrow thread upon which to balance the fate of one, never mind the fate of men. 

"Their friendship is strong," Elladan murmured, as if in response to his thoughts. "Legolas will help him." 

Elrohir nodded, the motion known to his twin by the increase and decrease in pressure upon his shoulder. The steady clomp of horses' hooves beat ceaselessly in the silence, broken occassionally by short voices saying clipped words in a tongue neither knew. Tension surrounded the group, but the twins were too tired to truly feel it. 

Gradually, the roar of a river shrank in their ears, the days long even as they had no true way to measure them. Far in the distance, nearly overwhemled by other sounds, thunder boomed. At least, he thought it was thunder, but it came from so far that it was hard to tell, the barest hint of a sound that did not even seem to exist. 

"Estel is probably hale again and back in Rivendell driving Ada crazy." 

Elrohir started from his daydream, then nodded again and swallowed thickly. "Do you think Ada realizes we're missing yet?" he breathed, lowering his voice out of habit, though he was pretty sure the humans already could not hear him and would not understand him if they did. 

"I don't know." 

"If he has, I wonder who he would send." Elladan did not reply, but he tesnsed, so Elrohir continued, the tiniest bit of humor reemerging in his thoughts. "Mayhap we should hope Estel is not in Rivendell, then. I do not think Ada would be able to stop him, hale or no." 

Elladan leaned backwards against his brother, demanding his attention, and addressed the worries that even Elrohir had not yet thought. "Estel is fine. Estel will stay fine." 

*~*~*~*~* 

He felt the reigns slip in his grasp, burning a line down his palm with the friction, felt his rear slide alone the leather of his saddle and reach its end, felt as he went one way and his horse the other, his vision dazzled by the brilliant flash of light he had not expected so close. 

Then he was falling. 

The reigns pulled from his grasp, sending a flash of pain through his arm as the loop caught around his fingers and was jerked free, wrenching him from any connection to the world. He reeled as that last platform was snatched away and he was left in free fall, a space without boundaries--no sky, no ground, no walls; his stomach fluttered at the feeling, his spine tightening at the realization that he was no longer in control, that he could no longer stop himself from reaching his inevitable conclusion. For a brief eternity, he was in no-man's-land, feeling the moment of weightlessness before gravity established its hold on its victim and sent him crashing down with all the force it could muster. He felt a stab of fear. Then he fell. 

_SPLASH_

His back impacted with the water, and he would not have been surprised to discover he had, in fact, actually hit a wall, that solid edifice somehow shattering on contact. For a brief moment, he did not register the cold, nor the wet, could not feel anything save the startled force of two objects colliding and jolting the other from its placidly separate existence. Then the freezing cold churning mass of glass he had fallen among shattered beneath him, stabbing him with razor sharp points of pain, ice, and he was accepted among them, swallowed whole into a world he had no desire to enter and could not easily escape. 

His breath, which had stuck in his chest as he was caught in transit, was forced from his lungs, shoved from him with merciless force. Bubbles floated from his mouth, lost in the edying swirl before they even had a chance to reach the surface, blotted from existence before they could proclaim his presence beneath the suffocating mass of the angry Brandywine, egged on by the relentless prod of the rain which swelled its ranks. 

The current he found himself caught in swirled him around, twisting and turning him as it pushed him further down its length, wrapping his heavy cloak about him, wrenching it around as he tumbled out of control, unable to tell up from down or left from right. Panic tightened his chest, threatening to force the remaining air from his lungs and plunge him into darkness in a watery grave. His arms flailed helplessly, catching in the cloak that whirled around him, a deadly hindrance in his quest for air. Adrenaline kept him moving when cold would have frozen him to the spot and had him curled as tightly as he could manage. That would not last long. 

Already, he could feel the chill creeping into his bones, his toes and fingers burning in that odd way, so cold they felt hot, numb but all too vividly voicing their displeasure, like they were going to shrivel and turn to ash or explode and he would really have liked to cut them off, but a more immediate concern vied for his attention. He needed to breathe. Panic surged through him. 

His chest ached, burned. The young man fought fiercely against his ever growing desire to breathe in and his ever shrinking ability to stop his body's natural impulse, fought with a strength that shrunk with every moment that passed, just like his air supply. His mind was hazing as the world swam before him, though he had a hard time telling if that was not just the swirling water before his eyes, and lights--circles that looked like the first flash of one of Gandalf's fireworks that spread in an expanding circle--danced across his vision at varying speeds, hindering his vision. HIs knew what this meant. It meant he was running out of time. 

With a strength born of panic, he clawed at the water, kicking despite the tangling quality of the robe around his neck that desired nothing more than to choke the life out of him (something that seemed to be a kind of race between the cloak and the water) and hit solid rock beneath him. Pain flared up his leg despite the numbingly cold water at the unexpected impact but he was propelled upwards. His head broke the surface not a moment too soon. 

Desperate, beyond controlling his actions, Aragorn sucked in breath, gasping in as much air as he could, which was not enough for his starved lungs. He breathed out harshly even as he slipped back beneath the surface, and only barely managed not to breath back in. He struggled desperately to reach air again, his head tipped towards the surface. He kicked hard and pried at the choking cloth around his neck. Darkness closed in quickly once more as his oxygen supply dimished, already dangerously low from the beginning. 

Suddenly the cloth came free, and a heavy weigth dropped from his shoulders, getting him to the surface where he sucked in air and did his best to keep his head above the water, flailing comically but it was all his frazzled mind could remember to do. He took another deep breath and got about as much water as air. He choked helplessly as his lungs rejected the offering they had been giving and plunged once more under the surface, unable to remember to stroke while coughing. 

Completely submerged in the freezing water that kept rushing him further down the river, he pried at his boots which hindered his movements, dragging him down like lead was tied to his feet, managing to kick them off and once more make for the surface. His head broke free and he had never before known the bliss of breathing as he did at this moment. He managed five deep breaths before water washed over his head, and spit out a mouthful when it had passed. 

Kicking to maintain his position with his head above the surface as he moved his hands through the water, he shook his head to get some of the water out of his eyes so he could look at his surroudings. He could see the trees moving past and blinked. He had not thought the current was so quick. 

With a last pause to gather his strength, he reached out and began swimming, trying to reach the shore. It was an impossible effort, the river working against his every move, pushing him backwards with every stroke he took, draining his strength with the chill of the water, his helpless shivering doing nothing to aid in his struggle. Still he kept swimming, kept reaching for that elusive safety that receeded from his touch. 

His head went under as the rushing water's fury became more palpable, his strength not enough to keep him above the water. It was so tempting to give up, to stop struggling against the flow and let it take him, to let the cold push him into sleep and never know any more pain. That would be the easy way. He could not accept the easy way. _Legolas, I could use some help,_ he thought, but there was no strength in him to voice the thought aloud, and not enough air to do so if he could find the strength. He doubted the elf would hear him if he could manage either anyway. 

Suddenly, the current shifted, pulling him backwards and spinning him, yanking him away from the shore. He reeled, reaching out for the bank that had never been in reach even as he found himself looking back upstream. Then there was a dip, and he splashed against the feeling of falling, fear clutching his heart with the knowledge that he had no control. 

He was spun again, whipped among the foaming waters by an invisible hand. His hand splashed back into the water, and he struggled to remember to kick, listlessly moving towards the bank that still stayed out of his reach. Then his mind lit on what he had noticed just moments before: there was foam. 

_Oh, no_, he managed to think, his eyes going wide. Then he met the reason for the foam. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

The wind howled, reemerging with a vengeance to shout its triumph to the skies, and the sky fell. Rain once more drenched the earth, cast from laden skies, and soaked the lone figure upon the Brandywine's banks. For an endless heartbeat, the flicker of an eye, an eternity, Legolas stood numb, staring at the turbulent waters that had swallowed his friend with so little complaint with wide, expressionless eyes. His mind would not register what had happened, could not grasp the enormity of what had happened. He was stuck at the lightning flash, the rearing horse. He was caught watching his friend fall, too far away for him to catch him, and then he was gone. 

He stared into the water, strained anxiously to see through it, to penetrate the roiling mass and see what lay beneath, hidden from view, perhaps seeking to glimpse his friend just past his sight resting comfortably in its depths, smiling contentedly as he waited for the elf to deny nature and find him, perhaps hoping that if he stared long enough the scene would reverse and flow backwards until Aragorn was back on his horse and once more rode beside him, no harm done. Perhaps either passed through his mind, or both, or none, too stunned to form coherent thought, and his thoughts were simply still, halted in a way the river would not, could not. 

Then the moment was passed and Legolas moved, starting out of his trance like a flash, urging Ardevui on downstream as quickly as he could, all sounds melding into a single, wordless roar and nonessential surroundings fuzzed into an indistinct blur as he raced the water and ran against time for the life of his friend. He did not know how long he had stood idle. 

Quick eyes darted across the water as he rode, forward and back and side-to-side, frantic lest he miss an important sign, desperate to see all at once. He knew not how fast the water pulled, nor how far Aragorn might have gone, how long he had to get there while Legolas was held inactive by horrified shock. Alternatively, he feared passing too far or not passing far enough, fast enough, coming too late or passing too soon, all hope held on a single chance that he would find that which he sought in a flowing tapestry that was never the same in any two seconds, that he would be where he was supposed to be when he was needed. 

His mind whirled. How did one find a lone person on a long river when he knew nothing but to go on? How did he know Aragorn was alive? He had to believe, but what if he was not? Would he find him? Would he ever truly know his fate? Legolas' hands trembled faintly where they clasped the reins that were more for show than need. 

Could he breathe? It was difficult to stay above the water when the river was so angry. What if he could not? What if he had hit his head and was not conscious, his mind trapped in a dark abyss while his body floundered without direction? What if he drowned? What if water filled his lungs and choked his heart before he could get to him? What if he was crushed, bashed against cruel stone? 

What if after all they had been through together, he never got to say good-bye and Aragorn had to die alone? Of all the thoughts, the questions, that tormented him, that one was the hardest to bear, the most painful. Imagining ways he could die was far easier to endure than imagining him already dead, imaginine life after he was gone, continuing after he had failed to save him, going on with the knowledge that he had not even been able to offer comfort to his best friend, much less render aid, in his moment of need. 

His heart froze in his chest, a painful lump of ice deposited cruelly near his heart, and he closed his eyes against the agony of his thoughts, only to fling them back open as that same heart and mind protested. If he could miss Aragorn with his eyes open, how much more sure was that outcome with his eyes closed? 

Resettling in the light saddle that was secured on Ardevui's back, Legolas used the physical action as a guide for his mind, hoping to slow his tortured thoughts and bring them back into some semblance of order and focus. If he could not think straight, he would not be able to find Aragorn, and the human would need his help. He urged Ardevui faster. 

The riverbank flowed beneath his feet in a mottled green and brown blur, the grass and mud seeming to form a solid carpet beneath him. The water at first matched his stride, then fell increasingly behind as Ardevui's legs carried him faster. Trees whipped by unmarked, too far from the bank to hinder Legolas' task, so he paid them no mind. His blue eyes fixed unwavering on the water that held both his hope and his dread. The distance fell away beneath him. 

So focused was he, so obsessed by this single, all-important task, that he never noticed the darkness shift from the air and drift down through the rain filled sky to surround him, wrap around him and the river both, blocking them from the view of those from afar and from the view of the trees, never heard their whisper of distress against his thoughts, never marked the shift of the ground beneath his steed's feet, nor her small snort of consternation as she noted the shift. Had he looked up, had he turned away from the river for a brief moment, he would have seen pitch black on every side. But he did not. 

The water, a deep gray under the forbidding sky, was an unbroken expanse, no change in its surface descernible save by its angry rumbling which gave away its motion. His heart beat wildly in his chest, rapid as the pounding hooves that pushed him onward, and he stood in the saddle to gain a better vantage. Then he was among rapids, churned white surf twisting through the dark gray, writhing against obstacles stuck in their path, a sharp contrast to the placidity of their surroundings. 

Legolas' eyes widened as he registered the new danger, hoping his friend's fate was not already decided. He turned to peer over his shoulder at the river behind him but could find no cause to believe he was yet in front. However he was to find Aragorn, it was not by looking back. 

Blue eyes once again turned forward, he scanned the rapids his friend had to pass, both praying and dreading to find evidence of his presence, fearing what that evidence would mean even as it would allow him to find the human. He glimpsed a lump in the water and his heart thumped to a stop, only to stutter back into rhythm when he realized it was but a rock. 

"Come on, baby," he murmured distractedly in elvish to Ardevui. "Just a little further. A little further." He could feel her building fatigue in the trembling muscles of her shoulders, the heaving of her sides, and was well aware they had already run quite far to reach this point. "We must find him." 

Ardevui ran on, finding a new burst of speed and strength, and Legolas kept scanning the water. A flash of something different, too dark to be foam, too light to be water, in his line of sight grabbed his attention. 

It protruded from the water, slick and pale, then faded to dark brown or gray and tried to disappear back into the water from which it had appeared. At any other time, he might have looked away, but he could not. Something about it demanded his attention, aided in that he could not figure out what it was. It could be little more than a rock pulled lose by the quick river, but his heart demanded he be sure before he move on. 

Still watching the shape that desired to disappear, Legolas urged Ardevui on faster with a gentle word and watched as the object grew closer and resolved itself before his eyes. A gasp escaped his lips and he urged his horse faster, anxious when he realized she could go no faster. His friend was in trouble and he could not yet get to him. His form rolled and he splashed weakly, struggling to stay above water. Closer. 

_Hold on, my friend,_ he thought desperately. _Hold on, I'm almost there._ With quick movements he undid the cloak about his shoulders and secured it to the saddle, then followed it with his quiver, slidding the straps off his shoulders and attaching it near his cloak where it bounced slightly as the horse ran. He swung his left leg over the side and perched on the right side, waiting for the perfect moment. He shifted, then tensed, time an ever quickening spiral in his mind, running down. 

Finally, he moved up beside his friend. He caught a glimpse of his friend's face, his lips tinged with blue and he felt a thrill of fear up his spine; he had forgotten about the cold. Then Aragorn jerked, and the little slivers of eyes he had been able to glimpse rolled back into his head and the human slid under the water. 

Without thinking, Legolas jumped. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Pain exploded through his head, seeming to shatter his brain, and it was all he could do to stay afloat and keep breathing. The current pulled him down and around and pain exploded in his hand, a sharp stinging that brought tears to his eyes that mingled with the water that dripped down his face. He pulled the hand in close, cradling it, and was promptly swallowed by the freezing flood. 

That would not do, so he released his hold, the water already stealing the pain and forced himself back to the surface, attempting to maneuver so he could see where he was going, what was coming. He knew his brothers said he should take more baths but this was ridiculous. If he did not get out soon, he did not think he would ever get out. 

Too late, he saw a boulder in his path. It struck his legs and stomach, sent shocks of pain up his arms to his elbows. For a moment, he could not breathe. He clung with his fingertips to rock, but they slipped off and he was swept past the boulder, scraped away by the tide. He flowed on, pushed first one direction then pulled back the other, the water sometimes rising on either side of him to crash over his head when he least expected it. Breathing was difficult even without the pressure on his chest, lest he desired to breathe water. A handy skill, that, but one he could never master. 

A rock scraped against his foot, noticable only because of the pull, and he twisted slightly, turning towards the bank. Another rock appeared in his vision, scraping by barely an inch away. He breathed a sigh of relief, then felt fire across his back, never mind it faded quickly. He was thrown by the impact and slipped beneath the water. Seconds passed, and it was more difficult to regain his previous position. His limbs did not want to cooperate, and despite his stubborn arguments, his mind was beginning to agree: it was better to just give up. 

That, though, was out of the question. A part of him, not affected by the cold, rejected the idea of simply accpeting defeat. If he gave up, he was dead; the chill water that desired to convey him to the sea would see to that. And he had just come back from that fight. Having just won, he could not abide to lose. He could not do that to Legolas, to his family. His death would tear them apart, he knew, having been privy to their greif at some of his close calls. Having faced this and rejected it as wrong, he could not give in again. 

His body did not agree, nor did it share his desire to live. At this point, it would be more than willing to simply shut down and never move again. His teeth chattered, and he clenched his jaw tightly to still the sound, a dull pain beginning to throb through his skull. What did not hurt was numb, and the effort to stay above water with arms that increasingly felt like lead, was draining him. He rolled into the water, his face to the bottom of the river. A distant part of his mind realized this was a dangerous way to lay, but it was a few moments before that part managed to convince the rest of him, aided by the need to breathe, and he rolled over, turning his head from the water. 

Silver eyes drifted towards the shore. If he could manage it, he would have wished himself upon dry land and out of the freezing water, or even into a tree so long as he was not here, near drowning. They half-closed as he could not find the strength to keep them open and his body temperature dropped low enough to stop his shivering. 

He felt himself drifting away, his mind retreating, and recognized the feeling from his youth. Then, he had been snatched from the jaws of death by timely aid. He could not see such a rescue coming this time. _Ai, Legolas. I'm sorry, mellon nin._

Even as the thought passed through his mind, his friend seemed to appear before his eyes, like a ghost out of the mists. He wished he could say good-bye, wished he could impart all his gratitude to his friend before he left. It hurt terribly to simply leave without a word, but he had not the strenth to utter a word even if his mind had been able to formulate it. 

It caught him by surprise, then, when he felt the last of the world fall away from his grasp with a sharp snap. The last he knew was an icy caress against his face. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Cold does not bother elves, but that did not keep the water from kicking him in the chest and knocking the air from his lungs. What it did allow was for Legolas to ignore the shock and head immediately for his friend. He started swimming, the strong current of the river pushing him quickly towards his friend with his own efforts. The human floated face down before him. His time was nearly gone. 

With a frantic burst of speed, he gained Aragorn's side and wrapped an arm around his chest and hauled back, pulling the limp body backwards with him. Aragorn's head flopped forward as his face was pulled from the water. Legolas slipped under as he pulled the human against him, and his heart trembled when his friend's head flopped back against his shoulder and connected with his temple, jolting the prince. Aragorn was so cold in his grasp, so still. He did not think he was breathing, but there was nothing he could do until he got the human back on dry land. 

He twisted around until he was in front and holding Aragorn above the water with his left hand. He knew it would be worse than useless for him to fight the current and that such an endeavor would cost Aragorn his life. He needed to work with it. He began swimming, angling towards the shore with the current's flow. "Ardevui!" he called. "Ardevui! Come!" 

The horse whinnied in distress and appeared in his line of sight, galloping along the river. Rain glistened on her fur and dripped from her mane. He returned his efforts to swimming, turning worried eyes momentarily on Aragorn to ensure his head was still above water. He could just see himself losing his friend through his own carelessness, with the human drowning because he was too worried about the goal to heed the the path he trod. Slowly, far too slowly to his mind, he was gaining the shore, and the current was slowling, but the river was also widening. He needed to reach the side. Now. 

He heard Ardevui whinny behinid him and kicked hard with his feet. Looking up over his shoulder, he saw the reins that dangled just above him and reached up. His fingers caught the braided leather, snagging in the loop, and he quickly shifted his hold to a more certain grasp. 

"Hold, Ardevui!" he called, even as the river pulled him and Aragorn past. The faithful steed planted her feet and pulled back as the reins were pulled taught. It pulled her head to the side and she resisted. "Back!" Legolas ordered, and she began slowly walking backwards, one step at a time. The elf struggled to help her, struggled to gain purchase on some rocks even as the river tried to steal his feet. 

After endless seconds, both horse and elf managed their task and Legolas carefully laid Aragorn down on the back. He immediately placed his fingers against his neck to find a pulse and was more relieved than he could ever say to find one, no matter how weak. He leaned down as if listening, hoping to feel the young ranger's breath ghost against his cheek. No air stirred. 

Feeling his mind racing in helpless circles, he pulled back and looked down at the still man before him. He could not do this. He did not know what to do. How could he help him? What did he do now? Drowning was not something one had to worry about in a forest. Falling out of trees, tripping, running into trees, sure, if one was clumsy or foolish or not paying attention, but drowning was pretty much out. One could not drown without standing water. But how did you help one who had? 

Legolas shook his head and rocked anxiously back and forth while sitting on his legs, his hands clenched in helpless fists by his side. If he did not help his friend soon, it would be too late, might already be too late. He had no idea how long it had been since Aragorn stopped breathing. Maybe there was nothing he could do. 

_No! There has to be something! There has to be. I can't have come so far just to lose him because of my stupidity!_

The elf reached out and clenched the wet material of his friend's tunic and tried to force his mind to cooperate. He had to think. There had to be something he could do. Aragorn was not breathing, how did he make him start? Why was he not breathing? Water. Water was in his lungs. Had to get it out. He rocked forward on a half-formed idea and placed his hands on his friend's chest, moving them until he found the man's daiphram. Praying, he pushed. 

The motion was sharp and short, a spasm of activity that reversed almost before it had begun. Two inches only, and Legolas watched intently for any change. Finding none, he tried again. Then again. And again. This had to work. He did not know what he would do if it did not. 

Tears streaming down his face that he was not aware of, he tried again, compressing the ranger's chest once last time, hoping to convince the lungs to expel the water trapped inside so his friend could breathe again and stay with him. His heart nearly stopped when Aragorn choked. 

Quickly, he pushed the man onto his side and watched with a kind of childlike fascination as water ran from the corner of Aragorn's mouth and dribbled down his cheek. Violent coughs shook the still form, but when it was done, the human was breathing, and that was a blessing in and of itself, never mind what it required to get there. 

Legolas was happy, ecstatic. His friend was alive and breathing. He had not lost him to the chill waters of the Brandywine and all would be well. A belief that comforted him for all of five seconds. Then he remembered. 

Aragorn was still cold, ice cold, and his breathing grew shallower with every exhale. His lips were still an unhealthy shade of blue _(no shade of blue is healthy!_ his mind shrieked), and this Legolas recognized, even if he had never seen it in person. Elladan and Elrohir had explained to him what happened when humans became very cold, that they could freeze to death, and that if they were exposed to the cold for long enough, their body temperature would drop past a level where that body could continue to function. The human would die. 

At least for this, the elf knew what he had to do: he had to warm Aragorn up. How to manage it, and quickly, was another matter entirely. The only thing he had to be grateful for at the moment was that the rain had stopped, at what point he was not sure, and the wind had died down until it was nonexistent. Perhaps the weather had decided to work in their favor for once. 

His movements feverish, Legolas undid his friend's shirt and pried it off the still form before jumping up and retrieving his cloak from Ardevui. He wrapped it around the ranger then began chaffing his arms and chest, creating heat, and praying it would be enough to raise the young man's body temperature. He could tell his actions were creating heat, but he could not be sure it was enough to help his companion. He was so cold. 

He moved down and began the same treatment on his legs, rubbing the wet material quickly back and forth. The water was so cold. Shaking his head, he undid the laces and pulled the wet trousers away from cold flesh. Whatever the pants were doing, they were not helping his friend keep warm. He returned to his horse and grabbed a spare cloak before dropping unceremoniously back beside his friend and returning to the rapid administrations that he hoped would save him, revive him. 

"Come on, Strider," he whispered. "Wake up. You have to wake. You're too stubborn to quite on me. Please, mellon nin." 

He rubbed faster, then moved back up to the man's arms with a short hop, one that would probably look quite funny to anyone watching, but he did not care. He chaffed the man's arms, then his chest, then tapped at his cheeks, trying to provoke a response. Nothing changed. 

With a frustrated sigh, he moved to pull Aragorn into his arms, then realized he was soaked and thought better of it. He quickly pulled off his own wet shirt and tossed it aside, before pulling out a dry one and pulling it on carelessly. He picked off his shoes and stipped off his pants, then replaced them also. That taken care of, he dropped down to the gound and pulled Aragorn against his chest, rocking them both as he continued to rub the man's arms. 

"Wake up, Aragorn," he began, his voice encouraging, like one would speak to a willful child. "Come on, mellon nin. It's well past first light and time for you to be up." He was comforted by the fact that even if the ranger had yet to wake up, he also had yet to stop breathing. 

Ardevui came over and pushed at his shoulder with her nose, distressed. He ignored her and continued rocking his friend, chaffing his arms, and hoping it was not all in vain. He was caught by surprise when Ardevui lowered herself to the ground beside him, but he scooted closer just the same, thinking that maybe he could use her body heat to help warm his friend. 

And even as he moved, he kept talking. "Come on, Aragorn. Time's a-wasting, my friend. Your brothers need you. Who knows what trouble they've managed to find. We have to help them. They need you." The rocking faltered a moment and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly, as if against incredible pain. "They need you, Aragorn. I need you. Please wake up. Please. Please, Strider, don't do this. Please." His voice choked, and he bit back tears he would never have believed he would shed over a human before he had met him. 

_Oh, the Valar_, he thought. _Let him live. Please help him. Help me help him, please._ He chaffed at the still body and plead again. "Please, Strider. What would your father say? He loves you. What would he do if you didn't come back? What if none of you come back? Come on, Aragorn. I can't find Elladan and Elrohir on my own, not without you." His voice wavered on tears, strained by the effort of holding back sobs. "Strider. Please. . . Wake up. Don't leave me alone. Not now. Not yet. I could not bear it. Strider. . . ." 

The first of increasingly building sobs wracked his slender frame, jolting his body and that of the human he held in his grasp. He pulled the man tighter to him and laid his cheek against the top of Aragorn's head. Roughly, he whispered, "Please don't leave me, mellon nin. Don't leave." 

Then the body pressed against him shuddered fiercely and fine shivers wracked the frame. The body held against his stirred, the movements small and faint. Almost fearing to hope, he pulled away just a little and looked at his friend. "Aragorn?" he questioned warily. 

Eyelashes fluttered weakly. "Cold," the man murmured. At least, Legolas thought that was what he said. 

Relief flowed through Legolas with the strength of the river that had carried his friend away. Aragorn was awake. 

*~*~*~*~* 

It was quiet, nearly calm, yet there was no peace. Sounds came hesitantly and many seemed disinclined to break the quiet. The sun shone innocently, the sky a clear blue overhead, yet fear hung heavy just out of reach. There were whispers, whispers that few understood but all heard, whether they knew they heard it or not. The ones who understood knew trouble was coming. The whispers spoke of a storm. 

In a quiet little town north of Minas Tirith, in a ramshackle building that passed for the pub where people could gather for a drink and talk, most of the patrons went about their business with nervous smiles and gratefully accepted drinks to warm their bones from the chill outside. But most is not all. 

On the far side of the room, at a table with a mug clasped firmly between its hands, sat a slight, hooded figure separated from the general commotion, alone and quiet. It bothered no one so no one bothered it. Most even forgot that it was there, still as a statue and dressed so like a ranger that it faded into the shadows, though ranger it was not. Those who did not forget had decided it was better to leave whatever it was to its own desires and trouble it not in the hopes of continuing to be overlooked. 

Serious eyes surveyed the surroundings beneath the darkness of a hood, marking the comings and goings in the pub, each person who passed through the doorway to get a drink or meet with friends, to what purpose none could say. The noise of the pub was a tense din that remained nearly constant, a bit of stability in a shifting world, punctuated by moments of clarity and light laughter or pregnant silence. 

The mundane trivilties of the general populace were a passing fancy, a means of escaping the harsh realities of its own life, a sometimes pleasant pasttime that allowed it to see the varying sides of the people it had suddenly been thrust among. Sometimes what it saw was less than promising, but it was the promising gems in all the filth that kept it from giving up hope and kept the silent figure watching, even as it was the darkness that necessitated the watching in the first place. 

Eyes were drawn to the front of the building by the opening and closing of the door, a brief flash of pale light slipping past the figure who entered. The new arrival was a man, fairly tall and simply clad with dark brown eyes and hair a couple shades darker. A hedged silence fell over the establishment while the patrons decided his measure. When the man walked over to the bar, they looked away and went back to their talk, picking up where they left off with nary a stumble to mark they had dropped the conversations at all. 

It was a peculiarity to the silent observer how these men could be so suspicious of other people yet accept this man they did not know with only a glance in his direction, a single measuring glare, that allowed them to dismiss him as little more than another person like themselves, years of living together allowing them to identify one of their own in a flash. That was, perhaps, why rangers met so much trouble within their midst. To judge on looks alone was to leave the most important aspect of a person out, though their were those who banked on just such occurances and complacencies. 

The man perched on a stool about the middle of the bar, nearly drunk patrons seated on each side, merrily chatting away. He took a swig of his ale, then swiveled in his seat to regard the rest of the establishment with a vague smile, his eyes sweeping the tables without hesitating on a single one until they found the only empty table in the room, too close to the silent figure for the rest of the pub's comfort. Briefly, his eyes flickered to the silent figure before turning back to the table. 

With a slight push, the man gained his feet and began making his slow but steady way towards the back wall, angling toward the empty table that had caught his attention. His progress was marked, but the figure moved no more for him than it had for any of the others, and his passage was unobstructed, even when the man's path took him right past the lone figure. 

A large hand gripped a mug carelessly, his stride easy and ranging as his path carried him past the silent figure. No one paid the fool any mind. The hand nearest the table dropped to the man's side, curling briefly, and a bit of parchment fell into his palm. When he was closest to the table, drifting so close as to brush it in his passing, he flicked his wrist and the paper dropped onto the table near the figure's hands. It gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had occurred, and none of the patrons had marked the event. 

The man continued past without pausing and took a seat against the wall, the mug clinking down onto the table as he leaned back in the chair and propped the back against the wall behind him. Any interest in him faded when he crossed his feet over the table and settled in. A few minutes later, two more men entered and joined him. They began talking loudly about the latest yield of crops and their prospects for the winter. Everyone had their own concerns, there was no need to trouble themselves with his. 

Slowly, after the pub had returned to its original carelessly loud state, the hands unwrapped themselves from the mug and deftly plucked the parchment off the table. Without removing its attention from the room, the figure unfolded the parchment and held it flat. Dark eyes flickered down to take in the writing. 

_They have them. -- Soweerni_

Shifting ever so slightly, the paper was held over the flame of a nearby candle, easily catching on fire and quickly burning into ash. The figure lifted the mug to its lips and downed the rest of the drink. Then it stood and headed for the bar, tossing a few coins on the surface as it passed and left, emerging into the weak sunlight of a mid-winter day. 

The game had begun. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

MaraJade: *grins widely* Well, here it is. I hadn't thought that other cliff-hanger was so bad. Hopefully, this lived up to the expectations. Struck my fancy, at least. 

Red Tigress: *looks delighted* Truly? Wow. *lips twitch* Float up on shore? Naw, I think he'd end up at sea if he simply floated. *looks thoughtful* Though, I suppose if you're going to swim, it's best to be an elf. 

Aromene: Did I miss a river? When and where did he fall in another river? *looks bewildered* Have I forgotten? Tell me I didn't forget. *looks anxious* lol. Yes, worry tends to do that. Somehow, I think don't think even gray hair could make him less becoming. Hm, an interesting thought. Very interesting. 

Grumpy: Yes, his brothers have something to do with it. He can't exactly help them, after all, and he needs something to do. *purses lips* So far, one group. A weather god? *snickers* He'd likely like that description. Hehe. But I won't te-el. :-P 

Rangergril: Squeal away. You have my permission. *smirks* All the problems are more than worth it when it's loved. Thank you! Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about ff.net. I swear it loves pissing people off. And it does it so well, too. *rolls eyes* And I'm glad you like Legolas. 

Tychen: Oh, you can be sure of that. After all, they haven't even found the twins yet. The four of them are so ridiculously trouble-prone it should be illegal. Course, if they weren't, we wouldn't have nearly so much fun with them. *g* 

NaughtyNat: lol. Mm, well, I've never really understood it either, so I can't answer that. But I could, 'cept I think it would be better served as part of a story. I _think_ I have an idea that works, but I can't start writing it until I finsih the story I stopped writing to finish this one. *g* I'd don't mind, honest. Oh, that's a good idea, one that's crossed my mind more than once. Really, I have a lot of them, I just don't really feel like writing, so it doesn't do me much good. I keep getting side-tracked by other things. *grimaces* *curtsies* The Missus is too kind. Lol. What did you describe? Do you wanna know a secret? Nearly all my vocabulary came from reading stories. I couldn't tell you a definite definition for more than half of them because I've never known, yet I know how to use them because I know how they've been used. Weird, huh? Lol. One step closer to winning the lottery? Never heard that one before but it sounds interesting. Care to explain a bit more? 


	7. Cold

Well, I had planned on posting this Wednesday. I was going to post it Tuesday, and somehow managed to convince myself not to. Funnily, I don't remember how. Wednesday rolled around and I was too tired--not to mention I had a fair amount of work I had to get done for classes the next day. Then, I was going to post yesterday, 'cept I went to see a friend of mine that I haven't seen for months and didn't get back until really late. No time to post. That's three days I've meant to post this and didn't. See what happens when I'm left to my own devices! *grins* 

Truly, I meant to post this when I was practically giddy. Now I can't remember why I was giddy except for the fact that I had finished my college entrance essays (my mom's stopped fussing at me to write them, so I count it a double blessing), but now I'm busy just trying to convince myself I'm not too tired to post. It's not quite working. Hehe. 

Oh! Did everybody see my new summary? Better, right? *nods hopefully* Right? Lol. Okay. Anyway, responses to all your wonderful reviews are at the bottom and you're quite free to ramble in your reviews if you like. I must be really odd, but I actually truly enjoy reading whatever you have to say, related to my story or not. 

And now, on to the story.****

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**Chapter 7**

The grass that had withered in the face of winter's chill crackled dryly underfoot, a pale sickly green color that spoke naught of the life the grass had known until cold and ice drove it away. It poked at the lad's bare feet, alternating between whispery tickles and sharp pain when he stepped upon them wrong. Had the boy's mother been around, she likely would have had a fit at the thought of her boy running across the lands in the full of winter barefoot. As it was, she never had need to worry over it ever again. 

Young Sairen's mother had met her end at the hands of a group of ruthless men that were rumored to stay in the Blue Mountains south of Rohan. They had come up from their haunt and troubled about the lands, poking mischief and causing trouble. For some reason, they had taken after some of the children, and she would not abide that. She was never given time to regret anything, for within moments she was dead, and Sairen was transfered to the care of his uncle, his father having passed early in the year when Easterlings had dared to attack the south village. No one was sure how they had made it so far. 

None of these things, though, bothered the red-haired youth. It had been months before, and with the resiliency of a child, he had managed to put them behind him. Now, he focused on what he had heard on the far plains not moments before. 

_A man on a dark brown horse rode up from the south, coming from the direction of the mountains, dressed in a dark green cloak of Rohan make, but there was something about his manner that led one to believe he was not kind nor given to light-hearted chatter as was often the wont of the Rohirrim._

__

_He was met in the middle of an empty plain, a little over two dozen feet from where Sairen crouched just ouf of sight in a stand of tall grasses he had been playing in long before anyone approached, by thirteen men on horseback. Whether the boy would have run or not, they stood too near for him to dare._

__

_Any thoughts of flight were erased from his mind when they started to speak. "Are you ready to carry out the Master's bidding?"_

__

_"What he want us to do, snivel brains?" one of the thirteen demanded, sounding angry._

__

_A glare was the response, but apparently whatever "the Master" wanted, it did not including him getting in a fight with these men, and glare was all he did. "There are two beings who might come this way: a man and an elf. They are wanted, dangerous folk with no business intruding in these lands. You should drive them out. If you do, the reward will be handsome."_

__

_"Why can't we just kill them, if they're so dangerous?" another man asked._

__

_"Because the Master does not _want_ them dead," the lone man retorted. He turned his horse back the way he had come and twisted to look at them over his shoulder. "See that they head south."_

__

_With that, he kicked his horse sharply and rode away, fading into the distance. The men grumbled amongst themselves and Sairen listened with wide eyes as they discussed what they thought of this "Master's" demands, but eventually all fell quiet._

__

_One man spoke, "Let's go wait for these visitors so we can get this over with. If the 'Master' wants them alive, then they'll be alive." Short, disgruntled nods preceeded a fast retreat and the men kicked up dust as they rode away._

Sairen was not sure what the meeting meant, nor exactly what it had been about, but he knew his uncle would want to know. That man had come from the south, and he always wanted to know about the men from the south. 

He jumped a small fence and raced across the yard, jumping a fence at the other side, and sliding between two poles of another. He moved quickly between the horses who were stabled in the pen, and emerged on the other side. The hard packed ground he raced over slapped at his feet, and now he had to dodge people, too. He swerved easily, not overly concerned about missing people, and most knew enough to get out of the way of careless little boys. 

Baskets with fruits or vegetables piled inside were moved out of the way at the last moment as he rushed by and stern glares were directed at his retreating back before each man or woamn going about their daily chores returned to their duties. 

He pounded up a short flight of three stairs, and pushed open the door at the top with little care for what it hit. It slammed into the wall with a crash and the individuals inside looked up, frowns on their faces. 

"Sairen, boy! Stop all that racket!" an irritated voice yelled. 

"Sorry, papa!" he called, then turned and closed the door, pushing the heavy wood back into place. The men had returned to their discussion and ignored him, but he walked up to his uncle anyway and tugged at his sleeve. "I've news, papa." 

"Boy--" 

"Men from the south, papa." 

Everyone went quiet. "What is it, son?" 

"A man from the south rode up and spoke to a group of men, said two strangers would be coming into town and that they were dangerous and should be driven out but that the master in the south didn't want them killed. Said they should see to it and would be rewarded." 

Siirl, the boy's uncle, leaned forward with interest. "Did he now? Well, that is interesting. These men, what did they look like?" 

The boy frowned. "There were thirteen of them and they were on horseback. Most had short beards and their hair was darker than ours. They wore dark cloaks, and spoke with a strange accent." 

Siirl's eyes gleamed. "Outsiders. And they're planning some trouble, see. Well thank you, me boy. We'll take care of it sure 'nough. If these here boys want them alive. We'll just have to see that they're dead." 

*~*~*~*~* 

Legolas held Aragorn close and continued rubbing at his arms and legs, helping to warm the man back up. The shivers were getting worse, and he was not sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was not the lifeless stillness of moments ago so he was more than willing to take it as a good sign. 

"What should I do, mellon nin? How can I help?" He hoped Aragorn was coherent enough to talk, and he had a vague idea that keeping the young man focused would help him. He ignored the voice in his mind that said he just wanted him to talk because he did not like the human's silence. There was more to it than that. 

"Mm. . . ." Aragorn murmured, his eyes fluttering a bit as they tried to remain closed. "Cold." 

"I know you're cold, Strider. How can I warm you you up?" 

"Nee' warmth. . . ." 

That caused the elf to frown. Was that not what he was trying to give? He was trying, there was just not all that much that could be done with so little in such conditions as they found themselves. "Like what?" Legolas asked, more anxious to keep the young man talking than convinced he would learn anything useful. 

"Tea," mumbled the human--at least that was what it sounded like, and the elf prince frowned, then raised his eyebrows in realization. _Tea, of course_. Why had he not thought of that? Was that not what was always given for every ache and ill. Amusement danced around the prince's thoughts. When in doubt, serve tea. It was a ludicrous notion, but if it worked. . . . 

The human's head lolled to the side, and his eyes closed. Legolas shook him. "Don't go to sleep, Strider. I need you to stay awake." His eyes fluttered, a spasmatic movement that briefly revealed his silver eyes, but the lids remained stubbornly closed. He shook him harder. "Come on, stubborn Dúnadan, I know you can do better than that," he tried teasing. "I mean, just think of all the trouble you give your father when he wants to put you to sleep. Don't tell me you're just going to give in now?" 

"Diff'ent," came the lackluster response of his friend, but it was still a response. 

"How's it different?" Legolas prodded, lifting himself up and craning his neck to get a better view of his surroundings. If he could just make the fire, everything would be so much easier. To do that, of course, he needed wood. Dry wood. And there was no wood near the river, wet or dry. 

"Jus' is." 

"No, you have to tell me. Spell it out." 

"Elves no' so dense." 

The elf prince laughed, amused in spite--or perhaps because--of his worry. "Humor me, mellon nin. I would hear your voice." 

No reply came, and Aragorn was silent so long Legolas feared he had fallen asleep, so he looked back at his friend and found silver eyes regarding him steadily amid half-lidded eyes, the most aware he had seen them since he had managed to wake his friend up. That had not been very long, admittedly, but it did his heart good to see. A badly trembling hand reached up and clasped one of Legolas', stilling his movement as he gaze it a sqeeze. 

"I'm not going anywhere, mellon nin." His voice was soft and raspy, but steady. A violent shiver wracked his frame, and he tried to pull him on himself, pushing his legs into Arduevui's side. "I'll be here. I won't leave." 

Legolas smiled down at the man, and could tell that his smile was shaky. "I know you won't. I have to go get firewood if I'm to make tea." Aragorn nodded. The look in his eyes said he had known that before it had occurred to the prince. Legoals stood. "Arduevui, keep him awake." 

The horse whinnied and the man frowned. Carefully, the elf disentangled himself from the young man and stood, nearly laughing as his faithful steed began licking at the ranger's face. Aragorn squirmed, trying to get out of her reach, but could not manage it wrapped as he was, and settled in to endure in silence. The elf raced away into the trees to the east in search of wood suitable for a fire. He hoped he would be able to find some. He hoped it would not take too long. He did not like leaving Aragorn alone when he was not sure he was well. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Warm, wet, sticky saliva from a horse's mouth was not a favorite substance of Aragorn's, and he did not appreciate receiving it in abundance. Even as he could understand his friend's concern--his would likely be the same were their positions reversed--he did not appreciate the elf siccing his horse on him. There had to be another way. 

His face scrunched as the felt the creatures hot, unbearably moist breath on his face, but he dared not open his mouth to protest the treatment. As much as he hated it, he really did not want a mouthful of the disgusting substance for his troubles. He turned his head away so he could breath without inhaling it, and winced through his shivers as the horse found the rather nasty gash on his head, the saliva causing it to sting momentarily. 

It was a testament to how worried his friend was that he failed to note the rather vivid scrathes he was sure adorned his back and hand and head. How he had missed the head injury was beyond the ranger's comprehension, in fact. He was also rather convinced that a fair amount of incredibly colorful bruises adorned his torso, or would soon if they did not already. He almost winced again as he considered the level of mothering these injuries would incur from Legolas when he finally calmed down enough to be concerned over them. 

Aragorn laughed, a small chuckled that turned into a fit as the absurdity of that observation made itself known. He leaned forward and buried his face in the horse's fur to escape his licking tongue and in an effort to ease the fire that traveled across his chest. He choked, and laughed all the harder, his body no longer shaking from the cold but from his amusement. 

He had never, ever thought that Legolas would need to calm down to notice cuts and bruises. Usually, such injuries caused the exact opposite reaction, and it was likely that the elf would calm down only to be sent into a frenzy of worry again. Despite that that thought was not nearly so funny as the original thought before reason decided to add its two cents, Aragorn could not help his laughter. Not even when it hurt. And it hurt bad. 

Did that make him machosistic? He thought it might. _Or maybe it's just the concussion._ Just the concussion. He snorted. He must be the only person in all of Middle-earth who could think of broken bones or concussions, contusions, and bloody welts as _only_ or _just_. There had to be a law against that somewhere, did there not? Sanity had to protect people from such thoughts, did it not? He supposed if it did it was failing in its trust. 

Ardevui snorted in agitation and nudged the back of his head with her nose. The horse did not know what to make of his behavior, and was concerned it was not something her master would be pleased with. This human was rather odd, but even that did not seem to cover his current behavior. 

Aragorn rolled over lazily and looked up at the horse through somewhat dazed eyes. He was feeling quite comfortable at the moment, pleasantly warm and fuzzy, and his head was making his vision swim somewhat nauseatingly, blurring the outlines of the horse. What actually sounded really good right now was sleeping. Closing his eyes and drifting in a world with no borders and no demands rather appealed to him, and his eyelids drooped to half mast. 

Was there a reason he could not go to sleep? He thought there might be, but the thought was hazy and difficult to hold onto. What was so wrong with sleeping? He hurt, and his father always said sleep was good for him when he was hurt. He frowned, his brow furrowing in consternation, and blinked his eyes back open. He would not give in to oblivion until he found his answer. He was determined not to drift away until he had it. For now, at least. 

He turned his head and closed his eyes as Ardevui returned to her ministrations, guarding his eyes against her assault. Annoyance quickly faded to the back of his mind as the warm, sticky, wetness vanished in the rythmic predictability of the lapping. Any chance he had at keeping his eyes opened vanished, and his good intentions fell by the way side. It felt so good to simply float. Surely he could just rest his eyes for a moment, just let the vile sun that glared at him be subdued by the dark press of his lashes. It was only for a moment. . . . 

The horse did not agree. She whinnied a loud protest (loud to his ringing ears, at least) and hit him firmly about the head with her nose, pushing it unyieldingly to grab his attention from the quiet drift of sleep. 

Pain, chased by irritation, flowed through the young man and he rolled over, moving away from the heat of horse flesh and close press that constricted him. At least, that was the idea. His movement, though, became no easier the further he went, and the constricting cloth moved with him. _Damn it, Legolas! I am not a child_, he thought in frustrated fury. 

And all at once he remembered why he could not go to sleep, could not release himself to the comforting embrace of the emotionless void: he had promised Legolas. He sighed, a soft, weary sound that spoke eloquently of his fatigue and his pain, his lack of strength, but the young man was stubborn and noble to a fault. If he had given his word, his word he would keep. 

Thus it was that he rolled again, despite his bodies desperate pleas for stillness, and manuevered, twisting and wriggling (also against his body's wishes), until he managed to free his hands and push himself into a sitting position. Once there, he found it an interesting experience. The world swayed listlessly about him, a peaceful swirl that reminded him of a young maiden standing in a sea of flowers and twirling slowly to more fully feel the sun on her face and the cool breeze of spring through the air, though it was a feeling he would have prefered to experience differently, as it now made him feel distinctly ill. He hated being ill. 

The colors around him, not incredibly varied to begin with, blurred together in a menagerie of streaks of varying shade, like paint slung onto a canvas with little care as to whether it streaked or overlapped, left wherever it fell without guidance by the artist. That was familiar, somehow, and if he had doubted he had a concussion before, he knew it with utter certainty now. Had he not felt the wet grass beneath his fingers, he might have believed he floated in the spinning blurred world, and was exceeding grateful for the reassurance of firm ground beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut woozily, and stilled his breathing a moment before taking as deep a breath as he dared and slowly let it back out. He would not be sick. 

Movement registered in his mind, movement not his own, and he heard something large shifting beside him. His bleary mind obediently, if sluggishly, informed him it was a horse, and, more specifically, that it was Legolas' horse, Ardevui. He wondered what ever had possessed his friend to give the horse that name. It was odd, even for an odd horse of an odd elf, but that was not important. What was, was that he had no idea where his horse was, and he frowned, then opened his eyes and looked around. 

The scenery had, miraculously, decided to rearrange itself into a tapestry he more or less understood, and his eyes came to rest on the river before him, its water raised and angry in her bed. He blinked, and was transported back to the fall, remembering the icy surprise, the fear of his horse as it shrieked at the fire that suddenly crashed to the earth from the sky. 

Another blink chased his silver eyes from view, this time longer than the last, and Aragorn sighed in resignation. He knew where Hodoer was. Or where he would likely go. His faithful steed would return to Rivendell, and there await his return, or come with anyone who left to see what ill had befallen his rider. Not that he thought anyone would come, no one knowing where to look, and not that he was willing to wait. His mind was not so fuzzy as to release him from the knowledge that he was still seeking his brothers, nor the fear that they were in grave peril. Even worse was the dread knowledge that _he_ was the cause of their ill fortune, even as he could not fathom why that would be so _now_. Why now? 

He sighed, then brought up a hand to rub wearily at even tireder eyes. This was all so much more complicated than he felt capable of dealing with right now. He was tired and he hurt and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, a desire his body agreed with, and he could induge neither himself nor his body until his friend returned bearing firewood. Despite everything, he started laughing, not even knowing why, but finding something about his situation incredibly funny. He was sure it was the concussion. 

That made it funnier. 

Aragorn shifted slightly to ease the ache of his position and noticed something that had eluded his attention previously: his clothes, which by definition were _his_, were not on _him_. He frowned, then shifted again so he could pull the cloak that had been wrapped around him closer about his shoulders, the chill of the wind sending shivers up his spine and pinching his flesh into prickled bumps. It was vaguely amusing that even the flesh tried to hide and pull together when one was cold, mirroring the acts of the body when it curled in upon itself. He really needed to do something about this concussion induced hilarity of his. It made his thoughts all together too disturbingly flighty. 

But the realization that he was not wearing his clothes made another fact abundantly clear: he had no supplies. With the fleeing of his horse, he had no food, no cloaks, no tunics or pants, nor any of the other necessities that had been strapped to Hodoer's saddle. He groaned, then flopped back down on his back. 

A hiss sounded through tightly clenched teeth, and his back arched, impossibly tense, as his body registered its disapproval. Then he gasped in a deep breath and held very still, willing his mind to forget the pain and release it; wishing, even, for the childish turn of his thoughts brought on by the concussion as they contained no pain. His eyes pressed tightly together as if he could shut out the pain by not seeing anything, the instinctive reaction of a child that never seemed to fade with maturity, no matter who the man was, and slowly the pain faded away as the insult to his pained form faded with the passage of time. 

With the passage of that pain, his body eased and the bowstring tension left his body. What remained was his newfound realization of his problem. His clothes were wet and he had no waiting pair that could be used. Legolas' clothes were not an option as the elf was too short (admittedly the least problematic option, as there was only an inche difference in their height), too thin, and too lithe for the ranger to wear his clothes. The other way around would have been an option, ridiculous though it would look, but this was not possible. He would have to wear his wet clothes. 

That was not something he looked forward to. He had already been wet and not dry and was now relatively warm, he had no desire to reverse his fortune. Plus, he was injured, and tired, and the weather was cold. Legolas would have a fit. _Elrond_ would have had a fit if he knew, and Aragorn could _feel_ the approach of a cold, could practically _see_ its sharp, dark claws digging into the soft ground as it stalked closer, low to the ground and prepared to pounce, prepared to strike hard and fast where he was most vulnerable and wrench from him even the semblance of control, and leave him helpless in unwilling bondage-- 

"Aragorn?" 

The ranger jumped, startled, automatically whirling to remove his back from the perceived threat, his head lurching dizzyingly with the abrupt motion, and his momentum carried him around full circle, landing him on his back when he had meant to catch himself on his hands. Fire engulfed his senses once more and his head fell back, striking the ground an unyielding blow and lightning flashed before his eyes, only this time free of thunder. His breath left him in an uncontrolled rush, and he floundered helplessly, lost in pain, his mind crying out even as he was nearly sure no sound passed his lips. 

Somewhere, he thought he heard something or somethings clatter to the ground. Then he felt two strong hands on his shoulders, grounding him past the pain, and he dragged air into starved, struggling lungs, his shaky breaths strained even to his own ears as sounds echoed loudly. His hands came up blindly to instinctively clasp his friend's forearms in his hands, and he registered the renewed ache in his fingers and he gladly focused on that as it diminished the fire that rage in his back. 

Slowly, he pried his eyes open. It was like battling an orc captain in a test of strength, but he managed to detach the top lids from the bottom lids. His eyes wanted to follow his lids back into his head, and it was a disorigenting moment when he saw nothing before he realized the problem and forced himself to look out front. When he managed, he saw exactly what he had expected to see: concerned blue eyes, taut face, pressed lips. Legolas searched him closely, making the ranger uncomfortable, so he smiled slightly. 

"I stayed," he croaked, surprised by the sound of his own voice, though he probably should not have been. 

Legolas smiled back, a measure of relief in his gaze to know his friend could joke. "Are you all right?" he asked back. 

"I don't even have my boots." Aragorn frowned. That had not been what he meant to say, not at all. 

Blue eyes darted down towards his feet before refocusing on his face, a bit of amusement coloring them. "Well you're just a sorry sight, Ranger. And we haven't even managed to catch up to your brothers yet. At this pace, I do not think you'll make it so far." 

"Me neither," admitted the ranger with a sigh, his eyes drifting closed before refocusing on Legolas. 

The elf frowned. "Perhaps we should head back to Imladris," he offered after a moment. "Lord Elrond could treat your injuries and I could continue looking for Elladan and Elrohir." 

Aragorn's brows drew together, and he tilted his head slightly to the side as if to question Legolas' sanity. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head, Legolas?" he asked, sounding concerned despite the rasping of his voice. 

"Aragorn, you are not well. I am admittedly not very knowledgable about how humans get sick, but I would wager being cold, wet, and tired does not help your situation in the least." 

"And you would win," the man responded quietly, "but do you honestly expect me to return and let you continue after the twins alone when we both believe they are in serious trouble? Truly, my friend. I had thought you had more sense." 

"I wish you did," the elf shot back, not pleased. 

Aragorn met his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. He knew Legolas did not want to see him hurt, but he did not wish to see the elf hurt, either, which had started the mess they had just gotten out of a few months prior in the Mountains of Mirkwood. While a part of him still feared being the cause of his friend's pain, a bigger part feared being absent to help if aid was needed. He could not stand the thought of not being there if Legolas needed him, and a somewhat egotistical part of him felt he could help protect the elf better than anyone else, a fact he was pretty sure was not so, but the feeling would not be gainsayed so he did not try. 

"We go together, Legolas, or not at all," Aragorn insisted. "If you try to leave me behind, I'll simply follow you, and then what kind of trouble would I be in?" 

A somewhat dubious expression marred the prince's face as he asked, "With whom? Whatever foul creatures you managed to cross between Rivendell and Mordor, me, or Lord Elrond? 

The ranger chuckled appreciably, and pushed himself up. Looking annoyed, Legolas helped him, his face set in disapproving aggitation that Aragorn knew covered a difference emotion all together. "All of the above?" 

An unwilling smile quirked the elf's lips and he shook his head. "Nay, Strider, were you to encounter all three, you would be long past trouble. You would be dead, and it would be hard to say who got you first." 

"Granted." He studied the elf a moment, trying to see past the mask his friend wore, now hiding behind a veneer of calm. He knew that calm was fake, but he could not determine if it was fear, anger, or concern that it covered, or perhaps a strange mixture of all three. "Mellon nin, just as you would not have me go alone, I could not stand the same. At least when we are together, we always have the other to drag us back home." 

"Well there is that," Legolas agreed, glancing down. Aragorn watched him take a deep breath, as if gathering himself, before he looked back up. A small but true smile pulled at the elf's lips. "I don't know why I bother trying to argue with you, mellon nin." 

"I don't know why, either," Aragorn answered with a frown. "Maybe I'll sleep on it." Then he eased himself back down and curled up on his side. His eyes closed and he went still for a long moment, half tempted to truly give in to the allure of sleep, but he could not resist peeking at the elf's reaction, and so opened one eye to peer at him. 

Legolas shook his head, exasperated. "Oh, Strider. I don't know what I'll ever do with you." 

"Wake me for dinner," he answered, his voice slurring slightly without his leave. He blinked slowly, trying to stay awake, but his eyes did not want to cooperate any more now than they had when he had first tried, and Legolas made no move to try to keep him awake, so it was a battle he destined to lose. 

Slowly, his eyes drifted closed and did not open again, the ranger caught in a deep sleep that took away the pain that lingered in his frame. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Silence slowly settled over the small, improptu camp, and Legolas allowed it, abruptly curtailing his initial impusle to shake the human, letting the vague calm settle in his mind in the hopes it could ease his heart. So much had happened so quickly, and he needed a moment to discharge his anxiety. A task made easier as he watched his friend's breathing slow and deepen, his rest bringing with it ease from pain and discomfort. 

A frown marred the elf's fair face, replacing the lines of concern that had begun to ease just moments before. It was somewhat amazing to him that he had nearly forgotten his friend's injuries again, so great was his relief to return and find the human coherent. That the human was injured again was something he could not bear easily, though apparently Aragorn could. He sighed. The ranger cared little for his own safety, he knew, and so long as his friend was not injured would not complain of his injuries unless absolutely necessary. At times like this, he wished it were not so. 

With no little bit of irritation, Legolas set about regathering the wood he had dropped mere moments ago and began building a fire. When the first flames jumped among the wood, he glanced at the human. The fire had been meant to make a tea that would warm the young man. Did he need to keep him awake until he was warmed? Did he want to? Blue eyes peered anxiously at the calm face, and he noted a bit of color in the human's cheeks, not deep or sharp enough to be from fever, and his lips were not blue. His breathing was deep, and while slow not so slow as to be a danger. How grumpy would the ranger be if he woke him now? Hesitantly, he decided he would make the tea and wake the young man when it was done. 

As he worked, his mind turned to other things, namely supplies. Barely cognizant of the situation as he was, the human was still right, though he had not touched on the situation as well as he might: there were not enough supplies for both of them to continue their journey. It was with dreary resignation that the elf admitted that meant they would need to stop somewhere and procure more. Which also meant going into a human town, most likely, as there were no elven settlements nearby, an enterprise that invited all kinds of trouble in and of itself, but at least there were also no dwarven camps to which they might travel. That, however, still left the traveling. To do that, Aragorn would have to redon his wet clothes. His cold, wet clothes. 

The elf sighed, seeming to deflate before pushing himself to his feet and continuing on with the duties that needed to be accomplished before noon turned to night. First and foremost was preparing the tea. To that end, he filled a pot with water and set it over the fire. 

The flames lept cheerfully, mesmerizing in their shifting life, reaching to the sky before dropping back, constantly replaced by another, the gentle roar a steady hum against the silence that was only broken by the quiet steps of Ardevui shifting nearby. Sometimes he wished his life were so simple, that he only had to consume fuel and burn brightly as a beacon for others or a provider of warmth for his destiny to be completed. Other times that was far too simplistic for his tastes and he desired something more. Those times were usually followed by some outlandish escapade that inescapably led to a reversion to the former wish. 

A small smile pulled at his lips, rueful humor momentarily overcoming his depression before he stood and made his way to the steed that stood obediently nearby. A more genuine smile crept onto his face, then, and he stroked her neck gently. "Hannon le, mellon nin," he whispered. "You're a good friend." She nudged his shoulder with her nose and his smile widened. "I think I can secure you a nice rest for your efforts, my girl. I'll appeal to his conern for others if I have to. You deserve it." 

Then he carefully removed the saddle, bridle, and a few small packs from her back and brushed her off as best he could. When he was done, she left him and went to drink from the river before turning her attention to the grasses on the river bank. He watched her for a few minuntes to assure himself that she was taken care of then turned his attention to his friend, who was not. 

Other things had been more pressing at the time, and his relief had been great once his friend had woken, but he had not missed and refused to forget Aragorn's injuries. He had seen the angry scratches across the human's back, and the smaller ones over the back of his hand, but it was the contusion on his head that gave the elf the greatest pause and made him most wary of letting the human sleep, never mind the cold. Head injuries he knew about. Deep sleep could slip into too deep sleep and the young ranger would be lost, never to wake up again, but his eyes had not seemed overly dilated or dilated too little, nor was one dilated while the other was pinched so he hoped it was well. If nothing else, he could always wake the young one up every couple of hours, make sure he was still there. 

He frowned, then crouched by the bags he had removed and rifled through their contents, searching out the bandages and herbs he carried as a matter of course whenever he traveled with Aragorn. (He knew the ranger had had a similar stash because of him, but that did not matter.) He found them easily, tucked into pouches that were pressed into the mixing bowl, and he pulled them all out before removing a couple of the pouches. The elf took his water bottle and a bit of cloth and knelt by Aragorn's head near the fire. 

He checked the tea, and removed it from the fire, letting the bags steep in the scalding water. He glanced between the two for the long minutes it took to complete. When it was ready, he poured a glass and moved over to his friend. The human would not wake fully, but he woke enough for the elf to coax the warm liquid down his throat. Then he eased him back down and wrapped the young man more firmly in the cloaks, easing him nearer the fire. How many times would he need to tend his friend while wet and cold? 

Carefully, he brushed Aragorn's hair back, then tried to move the dark strands away from the bloodied cut near his temple. The blood pinned the hair in place, and Legolas poured some of the water into the bowl after dumping the pouches. Then he dabbed the cloth in the water and wiped it across the cut. Red crept over the white but left no perceivable change in the view of the cut. Undaunted, he did it again, continuing his ministrations until the blood was cleared away and his hair free of the sticky embrace. 

Finally able to see the true extent of the injury, he breathed a sigh of relief that it looked to be mostly superficial though the skin was tender and a little warm to the touch. Faint touches of red that might have been irritation from his attention touched the edges of the wound, likely nothing, but the elf would take no risks and set to making the paste that would fight infection and lessen inflamation. 

When that was accomplished to Legolas' satisfaction, he moved on to Aragorn's other injuries, seeing to them with the same diligent devotion, willingly taking on the duty of caregiver while his friend was indisposed. He set about preparing a simple meal for later, half enjoying the silence, half wishing it would end. It was strange to walk on a razor's edge as he was, but the desire for Aragorn to recover was greater than the need to hear his friend's voice and he let the human sleep on. 

Eventually, there was nothing else for him to do, and he could no longer lose himself in simple tasks, finally left alone with his thoughts, exactly where he did not want to be. Thoughts could take dark paths, paths he had no desire to tread here and now. The image of Aragorn, motionless, lifeless, still flashed before his eyes, now alternating with his first sight of the young man upon being led into that cursed cavern months prior with when he had dragged him from the river. Both experiences were different, but both had stilled his heart with the same fear, and it was a concern he found difficult to let go. 

That Aragorn would die was a given, something that had to be because he was mortal, an inescapable fact that never left his mind, even if it was not foremost in his thoughts. For all that he was afraid it was something he would never be able to accept, never mind that he had believed he _had_ accepted it only to be shown once more that such acceptance yet eluded him, he managed to push it to the back of his mind most of the time. Perhaps it would be different when the man was called by old age. Yet that was a faint hope, for the elf suspected it would still seem too short a time. 

He shook his head. That was not now. There was no use dwelling on such thoughts when that was not the present, not what he faced. With a sigh, Legolas sat down to take up watch, unconsciously mirroring the position he had held just a few days prior, the last time the human had sat under his care. 

He cast his eyes to the west in desperation. Sundown was approaching. It was nearly time to get Aragorn up. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review responses:_

Aromene: Ah! That river! Yes, it's a wonderful plotline...subplot, whatever. Lol. A gray-haired elf would be something to see, actually. Hmm, perhaps longer than you think. There's a break in angst coming up. 

Nerfenherder: Hmm, I think Legolas has it pretty well in hand, but you may ask him if you like. *g* lol. Oh, Star Wars was my first love. I sat down and dialogued the three originals. My brothers make fun of me because I can quote them from memory. Lol. I prefer Aragorn, too. I think it makes me neglect Legolas. I shall have to change that. Hmm. Oh! Rambling's fine. I love listening to rambling. I'm very good at it. *g* 

Grumpy: lol. Not the way I'd chose to take a bath. Had he had a chioce, I don't think he would have chosen it, either. Ehm, it's one group that's looking for him, but one guy whose making the storm. It gets fairly complicated. 

NaughtyNat: lol. Don't say that. Art of....It reminds me of school. Had to read a poem called "One Art" about the art of losing.... *shudders* I hate poetry and don't really know why. Lol. Tell me how she reacts when you do! I watch Friends some, mostly just recently, and I seem to have a vague memory of something like that, so maybe I saw it and maybe I'm just making myself think I did, but--lol. You're right. *sigh* I so need to see ROTK again. I only saw it once, but I'm pretty sure I'll just have to wait until it comes out on DVD and then simply make up for lost time. I hope you make it through False Reality this time; I have the awful feeling I should revise it. *frowns vaguely* lol. Yes, asking for it, but--he was already in trouble when they said it. So noone caught the irony. *sigh* *smirks* I had the same thought when I was writing it. I swear sometimes I'm worse than all these bad guys about trying to cause them pain....*g* lol. Well, you find that out next chapter, actually. 

Rangergirl: lol. Not to mention he was already in trouble, right? Yes, I'd say his fate is definitely sealed. Hm, not a ranger. I even said it: "...dressed so like a ranger that it faded into the shadows, though ranger it was not." Hehe. Why does everyone want to assume darkly cloaked people are rangers? *looks bemused* You'll understand who it is soon enough, I think. Hmm, well, there is Aragorn torture, and as it is still in the future, that would mean it _is_ coming up; but unless I miss my guess, you mean is it coming up _soon_....And that's a bit harder. Hm.....Well, in a manner of speaking. I can't tell, though--it'll spoil the surprise. *smirks* 


	8. To Pass the Time

*peeks out from behind a wall and smiles hesitantly* 

Hi. Would you believe I died? *looks at disbelieving faces* No? That I was hit by a curse and was unable to move for several days until I was found and the curse reversed by Remus Lupin? *shifts as she hears a snort* Well, how about I was going to jump a dirt bike and nearly had my head taken off by a power line across my jump path which snapped and caused a small explosion at the generator? *grins widely* 

All right, all right; nothing earth shattering has kept me from updating. That last--*points at the last excuse*--I did not make up. It just didn't happen to me. I cant remember what I was watching, but I got it from that. You couldn't see the power line until he was flipped and the bike went flying. *fights back laughter* That shouldn't be funny, but it is. *snorts* Oh let's see. The reason I have not updated in going on a week and half is that I suddenly could not make myself sit down at my computer and read my chapter. This is bad as I have also not made any progress on any of the other chapters. *sigh* I've come across a rather disturbing realization: I'm no longer interested in my story. *gasp* I now have the rather strong impulse to write Harry Potter. *winces* I haven't gotten very far, nor have I spent all that much time on it (the prologue is all that's finished and even that might need to be tinkered with) and just happens to be one of two ideas that struck me within an hour of each other--within _half_ an hour of each other dealing with that magical realm. *g* 

The good news is I think I know where my apathy arises from: burn out. I need to lengthen my attention span. Lol. Round about end of November-December, I was writing nearly a chapter a day. Wonderful, really, but it sapped all my creative juices. I hate it when I really want to, feel like, writing, but my mind spins and won't do anything. It's really odd. Anyway, hopefully, it's been corrected with my extended, unintended, absence. I'm getting really bad about this. See what happens when you tell me to post at my leisure! I procrastinate! Ugh. 

Hm, I'm going to apologize in advance for this rather pointless chapter, as well as the last one. Well, nearly pointless. It has a point, it just doesn't serve to exactly advance the plot. I think it's interesting, which I hope will make up for the fact that it's more a filler (time passer) than anything else. *blinks* Actually, it's necessary from my detail oriented perspective, it's just the story that could stand on its own that's unnecessary. . . . I'm going to shut my mouth now. Sleep depravation doesn't do good things for one's mind--and I can't even blame school or studying, because I wasn't doing either when I was up late. That was just my own thoughtless stupidity fueled by obsession (I was reading a Harry Potter story--I finally found one I like!) which led to little sleep and has made me too tired to actually go to all the trouble of posting. Consequently, the reason it's now Tuesday and you're only now getting the new chapter. *pauses thoughtfully* I should have the next one out Friday or Saturday. So good! Quicker! 

This has gotten rather long. I'll think I'll be going. Thank you so _so_ much for reviewing. Feel free to chide as well as ramble. I can't decide if I should be pleased or disappointed that I haven't been threatened with pet Balrogs or anything of the like yet. . . *looks thoughtful* No, wait, I had a death threat on my Aragorn/Arwen story. *eyes widen at the realization that she _still_ has to write the sequel to that* Em, I think I'll be going now. Please review. Please, pleasse, please, please! *g* Responses are at the bottom. That still works well.****

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**Chapter 8**

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****Back and forth, to and fro, over and over and over the gentle rocking motion lulled him into a dazed half-awareness full of contented peace. The soft and sharp lap of water against the side of the boat, steady and rythmic served as a comforting backdrop to ease away his sorrows and his pain. The sun was a steady light overhead that suffused the darkness behind his eyelids with a pleasant orangish glow. These were the days that were gone too quickly. 

A cool breeze ghosted over his skin, delightfully cool against his warm flesh. He could just stay here forever, lost in the serenity as the boat rocked again and again, the small waves moving it every so slightly, just enough that he was not still, and he could almost say he was floating. Just floating. This was how it was supposed to be. 

No cares demanded his attention. No swords flashed in bright sunlight. No blood flowed from wounds that dug too deep. No cliffs to fall from. No brothers or friends to worry about. No one to keep out of trouble. Just floating. 

He could float well, the light waves splashing against the carved wood, occassionally changing patterns and hitting the side harder. He smiled, a wistful curve of his lips that radiated peace, that would not have looked out of place on a baby in the sweetest dream. Here, in this place, there was nothing to fear. 

Then the boat tipped. 

Elrohir jerked sharply, instinctively moving to try and catch himself, moving his hand to put it out as was the habit of all, expecting to splash into the chill water of a clear lake. Expectations, though, are the threshhold to disappointment. 

The dark-haired elf's hand caught, pulling painfully as his shoulders constricted, the appendage held firmly behind his back, and he realized he was not lying in a boat in the lake at Rivendell, but was instead sitting astride Talme, his horse, behind his brother, blindfolded, and that he was falling. 

A sharp yank from the rope tied to his right arm, pulled him back the other way, halting his slid, and wringing a startled gasp of pain from his lips. He had not expected that, for all that that small pain was loads better than the pain that would have resulted if he had fallen from the horse, his hands bound behind him and unable to catch himself, his eyes blinded so he could not see, but it was still an ache he did not need nor want, and his tired mind was still hazy from the pleasant dream that had so abruptly been stolen away, his mind scrambling to reestablish reality in a world of pain. Thus, it was a moment before he realized what had changed. 

They were slowing. Not only that, though, there were others around them. He cocked his head to the side, the better to hear what was going on, and listened intently to the added footsteps that thumped against stone around him. Voices intruded, high and low mixing in a confusing tangle that he was not yet up to untangling, especially as they did not seem to be common or elvish. Though, that could be his head simply scrambling the syllables. 

A couple of individuals from their group broke away and rode off quickly, the clatter of horses hooves sharp against the low background din of work and talk. He frowned slightly, wondering if this was where they had been going all along, if they had finally arrived and would meet this "master" Conyc had spoken of, if he really wanted to know, and if this could all somehow be a very bad dream that would end if could manage to wake himself up. 

He sighed, a light exhalation of air, and dropped his head between his twin's shoulderblades. "El?" 

"Hm?" 

"You all right?" 

There was a moment of silence, in which Elladan seemed to pull himself out of a trance back into full wakefulness, like Elrohir had been startled out of when the horse stumbled, then he spoke, his voice vaguely amused. "I think we need a new question, brother." 

Elrohir frowned and shook his head, lost for once as to the processes of his brother's mind. 

"Most people ask 'how are you?' as the basic catch all question and get some careless answer that's like as not 'fine,' and doesn't really reflect how they are at all." Elladan paused and took a deep breath, the air wheezing laborously as it struggled to enter his lungs. "Why do you ask when you expect me to say 'fine'?" 

"Because I hope that one day you will deign to tell me the truth the first time," Elrohir replied, still smiling at his brother's complaint. "I suppose that's about as likely as Estel actually making it home hale." 

Elladan did not reply, and the younger twin returned his attention to their surroundings. Something was happening but he could not tell what. Damn the blindfolds! He wanted to _see_. 

"Don't worry, brother." Elrohir turned his head forward so he _would_ _have_ been looking at the back of Elladan's head. "We'll get out of this. Somehow." 

He hoped so. Before he could respond, the movement became more localized, and his attention was thrown out around him. Talme was jerked to a stop, startling both elves, and hands appeared as if from nowhere to grab the elves and yank them unceremoniously from atop the steed. Elrohir stumbled, his base disappearing and reappearing in the blink of an eye, his sense of balance disturbed without his eyes to tell him what was around him. 

"Come on, boys," a familiar rough voice said. "Get them settled." 

Now if only he had said "gently" Elrohir might have been well. He was pulled to the left, tripping as they changed directions without telling him, pushing and pressing at his bruises. He hissed and heard his brother cry out in pain. Fury surged through him at the rough treatment, rocketing adrenaline through his frame. He pushed blindly at the hands holding him, pulling against the holds on his arms. 

Angry curses rang gratifyingly in his ears, followed by increased scrambling. Hands fixed bruisingly on his arms, then a fist buried itself into his stomach. He curled forward as the air left his lungs, forced out with nothing to replace the vacuum left in its place. The elf opened his mouth wide in an effort to pull in oxygen, though it was a moment before his lungs took the hint to help him. 

Then he was strightened, a hand tangling tightly in his hair and pulling his head backwards so he would have been looking at the sky. Something hard, cold and sharp was placed against his throat, and his mind provided an answer: knife. 

"That was a stupid thing to do, Elf," a cold voice said, this one different from Conyc's. "You wouldn't want us to have to dispose of you after coming so far, yet falling so short." 

He pulled against the hands holding him, testing their grip almost unconsciously, and found it quite strong. "Who are you?" he asked, at last, willing his mind to work as fast as he wanted it to. 

"None of yours, Elf," he said. "And if you don't want your brother to pay for your crimes, you'll be nice." 

He took a deep breath, his lungs finally working the way they were supposed to, though it was somewhat difficult to convince them of the fact the way his head was being held. "And what makes you nice?" 

"Cooperation. Take them to their posts," he ordered to the guards around him. The men started leading him away, his hearing telling him Elladan was being pulled along behind him. 

Elrohir struggled briefly and called back over his shoulder. "Why are you so afriad to let us see where we are?" 

The man laughed. "Oh, we don't mind if you know. In fact, you're on the west side of the White Mountains, but we know how tricky you Elves are. Seeing freedom gives you ideas, ideas we want to protect you from. But don't worry, Master Elf, we'll lead you true." 

"Elrohir, saes," Elladan breathed, the plea carrying to his ears. Fear shot through his veins at how strained the plea was, how breathless, how weak, and it was not just because it was quiet. His older brother was always the strong one, the stable center, unwavering, even when his passions got the best of him. Elrohir could always count on him to stand up and protect him from harm, from himself if need be. It scared him that doing so could prove too much for him. He swallowed hard. 

The man fell silent a moment, and no mocking comments followed, leading Elrohir to the conclusion that the humans had not heard his brother. In fact, they seemed to be waiting for him to comment. He did not. There was nothing to say; his brother's health was more important. 

The man seemed to decide his silence equaled compliance. The ones holding them began leading them again, and Elrohir followed behind them docilely. He tried to keep his steps sure, but rocks kept appearing beneath his feet to trip him up. He never fell, but his arms were beginning to protest the vice-like grips of the men holding him and their persistence in pulling him to his feet at the slightest misstep. 

Eventually, they were forced to a sitting position, and their arms pulled. Though he could not see, Elrohir suspected they were securing their arms to some place along the ground. He heard their footsteps fade into the distance, and tested his theory by pulling at his bonds. They held firm and he abandoned any thoughts of them. "Elladan?" he called. 

"Here." 

"Are. . . ." He cut off the question and swallowed hard, his mind stumbling over the question Elladan had complained about. 

A tired chuckle reached his ears, and he heard the slight scraping noise as Elladan shifted closer to him. His voice was near the ground when he spoke. "I wish I could see the stars," he admitted. 

Elrohir sighed, and shifted until he laid as close to his brother as he could manage. "I don't think they're out yet." 

"I would still like to see them." 

"I know." He, too, had missed seeing the stars as they journeyed across the lands with their captors. As a distraction, he had taken to picturing them in his mind, recalling their bright sparkle, their location in the sky. It did his heart good, but they were beginning to fade in his remembrance of them, losing the skarp definition that they held when he saw them in the night sky. "We'll see them again soon." 

"Nay, brother," Elladan whispered. "I have a feeling it will be long ere we are free to again watch the stars." 

Elrohir's blood ran cold at his brother's words. He turned to face him, lifting his head for a better angle though he could not see past the black cloth that blinded his eyes. At the moment, he would give anything to see Elladan, to know his expression and see his eyes. There was a weight to his words that made Elrohir desperately want to deny him, say they would see the stars in a few hours. 

"We're in over our heads, El," Elladan continued in his silence. "I hope Ada realizes we're in trouble, 'cause we won' be gettin' ou' of this on our own." 

"Have faith, brother," Elrohir answered, needing to say something to counter his brother's dire words. "Have faith." 

Labored breathing drifted to his ears as the elder twin breathed deeply. "I hope you're right." 

"I'm always right," he told Elladan with a slight smile, his eyes closed beneath the blindfold, picturing the expression on his brother's face. "I can't believe you don't know that already." 

"Nay," was the response. "I only know that you can't shoot." 

"I can so." 

"Can not." 

"Shut up!" The abrupt shout startled both elves, and their jaws snapped shut with a clang, both heads turning towards the sound. Heavy footsteps approached the prone pair and a thump heralded the arrival of something new in their midst. "You will have plenty of time to talk once we arrive at our destination, but until then I suggest silence." 

"What do you want with us?" Elrohir asked, recognizing this person as one of the beings from camp, as his accent was different than any of those that had traveled with Conyc. He hoped this one would provide him with more of an answer. 

"A little peace and quiet," the man responded. "And if you will not grant it willingly, we will gain it by force." 

The younger elf clenched his jaw tightly, holding back the retort that danced on the edge of his tongue. He was not so worried about what they would do to him, and would gladly take a beating if it gained him some answers, but with their luck, the worst would fall upon Elladan and he knew his twin could not take more hurt; his ribs already troubled him greatly. As much as he wanted to, he could say nothing. 

The silence aparently satisfied the man, for he turned away without another word and disappeared back the way he had come. Elrohir frowned. "I do not appreciate how they keep managing to come upon us so quietly," he complained. 

"Mayhap you are simply not paying close enough attention," Elladan answered. 

"Did you hear his appraoch?" 

The elder twin sighed. "No." 

"What is going on?" Elrohir asked of no one in particular, not expecting a response, but more than willing to accept one if it was offered. He truly despised being left in the dark. 

"Sleep, El," Elladan bid. "We will be riding again soon enough. I suspect we will need all the strength we can muster before this is over." 

"I don't know if I could sleep," he replied, already trying to relax, and his body telling him that was not such a hard task to accomplish, even here, as it pulled him down towards darkness and bliss in ignorance. He murmured sleepilly, "I want answers." 

"We will get them," answered Elladan confidently. "Soon." 

Elrohir looked up at him reflexively, then laid back down when he was again thwarted by the blindfold and closed his eyes, falling asleep faster than he would have imagined possible. 

*~*~*~*~* 

The fire crackled happily, and the stew that hung over it was nearly done. The sun settled over the tops of the mountains that were a hint of presence in the distance, and the temperatures once again began to drop. Under a darkening sky, Legolas moved quietly, unwilling to prematurely wake his sleeping friend, and checked the human's clothes which he had set out to dry earlier in the day. He frowned upon finding them still quite damp, but there was nothing he could do. He resettled them, then moved to stoke the fire. Movement caught his eye and he glanced at Aragorn to find silver eyes watching him tiredly. 

"Smells good," the human mumbled around a yawn. 

The elf smiled. "How do you feel?" 

"Better." Aragorn sat up and pulled the cloaks tighter around him convulsively. He scooted closer, watching as his friend stirred the contents of the pot. "If it weren't so cold, I could almost imagine I was back home." 

Legolas frowned. "Your back is scratched, you have a head wound that looks like you decided to wrestle with a rock and did not duck in time, and you are sleeping in the cold on the ground wrapped in nothing but cloaks. How could this be like home?" 

"Do you really want to know?" the man asked with a grin. 

The blonde opened his mouth, not exactly sure how he planned to answer that, and froze, his mind retreating back to what he had said and the human's response, then his mouth closed. He stared at Aragorn with a confused and disbelieving look that suggested he thought the human insane. "Do I want to know," he repeated blankly. 

Aragorn's grin widened. "Do you want to know?" 

He closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest, his mind telling him he did not, his heart telling him it had to be good, and he knew that in this instance his heart would win. "What did they do?" he finally asked, guessing correctly that this story included the twins. 

The young ranger laughed and scooted yet to the fire, his eyes gazing off into the distance. "I had just turned sixteen, and the weather was beautiful. Spring covered the land with flowers of every color and the nights were comfortable. Elladan and Elrohir always become decidedly . . . mischievious about that time and I have never been able to determine exactly why, but I was enjoying my ever growing freedom, the expansion of my responsibilities and their more inclusive trust. They had begun taking me on hunting trips with my sixteenth year, and had begun teasing that I was nearly a man." 

The human smiled, thinking of how long it had taken for the twins to truly accept such a thought. Even now, they still prefered to think of him as a child, his nearly thirty years little more than the blink of an eye to elves, but such an event had been far enough away in their minds that it did not hover closely in their thoughts and they could joke about it freely. Aragorn chuckled softly. 

"I was exceedingly pleased that they thought I was nearly grown, for I had always been their little brother, slow at everything, and viewed such an achievement as the realization of all my dreams. The days passed slowly as we exploited the weather after so long confined in doors due to inclement weather. That, and they had had to look after me. My reactions to their pronouncements slowly crystalized into an idea for them, a game, and they thought up a way to exploit my eagerness. 

"They told me about a ritual. . . ." 

~*~ 

Bright silver eyes stared up at them eagerly, a desire to prove shining in their depths, and Elrohir exchanged an triumphant smile with his twin. "It's a coming of age ritual," Elladan revealed. "Every youth undergoes it when they are ready, and it signifies their eligibility for the elevation to adulthood." 

"Really? You and 'Ro did it?" 

"Of course," Elrohir answered. "It is a necessary step on the way to maturity. But it is most difficult. It requires skill and determination. Not just anyone can accomplish it or it would not be a true test of ability." 

"I am ready," the teenage boy insisted. "What must I do?" 

The twins exchanced another amused glance. Sometimes, this was just too easy. "You must spend the night in the woods, alone. You can take no provisions and no weapons and you must survive for three days. You can have no contact with the outside world, and if you are to truly excel, you must do it with but one article of clothing." The elf cocked his head. "Well, one article aside from your undergarment," he amended. 

Scarlet rushed into the youth's cheeks, but he did not glance away. "But what should I choose?" 

"That is up to you." 

"I should do it tonight?" 

"It is up to you. But you must be ready, for failure is not accepted lightly." 

Estel nodded seriously. "I will not fail." Then he rushed off, eager to prepare for his ritual and just as eager to accoplish it, to prove to the elves around him that he was not a child that always needed to be looked after. He was nearly a man, nearly grown to adulthood. They did not have to worry about him. 

Elladan watched him leave with a slight frown. "Three days is not too long, is it?" 

"Even were he to not catch a thing to eat, he could not starve in three days." 

The elder nodded distractedly. "And no weapons? What about Orcs?" 

Elrohir shook his head. "No Orcs would stray so near Rivendell." 

Elladan finally looked at his brother, amusement replacing his brief moment of concern. "What one article of clothing do you think he will select?" 

Laughter bubbled up from the younger twin, and a smile split his lips as he shook his head. "I have not a clue, dear brother. But knowing Estel, it will be memorable." 

~*~ 

"You fell for that?" Legolas demanded as he watched his friend. 

The human smiled, apparently not embarrassed by the memory, though Legolas knew he would have been. "Oh, it gets better," the man assured him. "And Elladan and Elrohir got in trouble." 

The elf shook his head wearily, and removed the stew from the fire to let it cool. "Which article of clothing did you choose?" 

"A cloak," the ranger answered, and Legolas looked up, startled. "The pass was not my first experience with cold weather, and I yet remembered the chill, or rather, my father's lecture and the cold that I suffered through after it." 

That made a certain amount of sense, thinking about it that way. A child who had been bitten by the cold would likely think to choose an item he associated with guarding against the cold, and Legolas found that he could not decide, were he put in a similar situation, what he would choose. 

But it was also funny. The idea of Aragorn, the usually serious occassionally irreverant young man that sat by his side, running around the forests of Rivendell in naught but his undergarment and cloak was a priceless imagine indeed, and his was hardpressed not to laugh. His lips twitched convulsively in the light of the fire. 

The human smiled at him. "It was funny. Admittedly, I found it funnier than my brothers did once it was over and for different reasons, but it was still funny." 

"What happened?" 

"Little enough at first, but you know me. I never have managed to do anything halfway." 

~*~ 

The sun rose sluggishly in the sky, and Estel watched its progress with weary eyes, shivering slightly in the chill morning air, the dew still fresh about him. It had been two days, and they had progressed slowly and without incident. While good, he also had not managed to catch a single thing. He supposed he could complete the three-day requirement without hunting any food and only return hungry, but he would really prefer to have caught something himself. After all, it proved nothing he starved himself to the completion of the test. 

Of course, the declaration to catch something before his test was completed was a bit easier said than accomplished. Currenlty he walked the lands of Rivendell, protected elven realm, but he knew the hunters usually left these lands when they set out to replace the stores for winter and he was unlikely to find any game he could catch while he was yet so near his home. Besides, would not it really prove his skill if he left the protected lands? 

Yes, that was best. He could prove his skill by surviving with little far from home and cement that proof by catching an animal to eat for lunch, or dinner, before returning to his family. That decided, he stood and began moving stealthily through the trees, practicing the techniques his brother's had taught him on their journies together. One day, he would be able to sneak up on the elven brothers and they would not know he was there until it was too late. Then he would pay them back for their tricks with a few of his own. 

His pace was quick as he set off on his journey, determined to accomplish his task and prove his worth before the next morning, when he could return, his test complete. Never before had he traveled so far, and his legs ached when he finally passed the borders into the lands northwest of his home. The trees thinned here and he could easily see that the sun was now westering. It would be diffficult to achieve his aim before nightfall and make the journey back, and he was quite tired and shaky. His hands trembled lightly and a headache throbbed at the just behind his skull, having developed sometime during his trek. It probably had something with him not eating, as he seemed to remember his father saying something about low blood-sugar causing headaches, and that was why he needed to always remember to eat. Well, this time he had not forgotten, there was just nothing to eat. 

Copying movements he had seen his brothers do when they were hunting, he crouched in the ground and searched the floor, well aware of what he was looking for but not entirely sure how to find it, or comprehend what it was he found once he did. Still, he kept searching, duck-walking across the ground as he searched, pushing grass and leaves aside as he looked. The ground was soft, and his boots sank into it where he stepped, rain having come not long before and soaked the ground, making it more pliable. Thus it was that he found a set of odd footprints, odd to him, for he had never seen their like before. They were larger than any elf's print he had ever seen, and not so curved as his own, the front nearly the same size as the back, and both quite wide. 

The youth cocked his head to the side and stood, still watching the ground, his eyes fixed intently on the print. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and placed his own foot over the mark, trying to match it as best he could, and was more than just a little awed when his foot was dwarfed, the indention occupying far more space than his own fairly large shoe. His sharp eyes traced the tracks ahead of him from where he stood, and saw that they headed off to the east, towards the Misty Mountains. While he had never planned on heading that way, he decided that he was _definitely not_ going that way even to save his life. Whatever had made those prints were not something he wanted to meet unarmed. Estel started walking the other way. 

His quiet steps squished softly across the ground as silver eyes studied the earth before him, searching for animal prints that might tell him a suitable creature to hunt was near. After nearly thiry minutes of searching thus, however, he looked up. There had to be a better way to go about this than merely hunting in the dark. How did the others do it? 

He swallowed and looked back down at the tracks, thinking how thirsty he was. It had been a wihle since he had last had anything to drink. . . . Slowly, a smile spread over his face. Water, that was the answer. He needed to find a pond, lake or river with clean water. Animals would go there because they get thirsty, too. 

Quite pleased with himself, Estel looked around, not quite sure how to go about locating said drinking hole. Saying he wanted to find it was all well and good, but how did one go about actually doing it. HIs lower lips found its way between his teeth as he looked around, nibbling on it absently as his eyes wandered. This was definitely harder than it looked. Maybe he was not ready. But failure was not an option, so he took the first idea he came up with, and moved to climb one of the nearby trees. 

Intent eyes scanned the boughs, looking for a way up. Now was one of those times when he desperately wanted to be an elf and find tree-climbing an absurdly easy endeavor instead of the slightly scary, daunting, delicate task that required all of his attention and far more time that could reasonably be required of something that was always so easy for his friends. (That said friends were elves failed to make an impression in his mind, except to say that he was not and would always be slower, clumsier.) He was not to be dissuaded, though, and gamely lept, his small and mostly uncalloused hands grabbing onto the branch above his head. He grinned at having correctly guessed the height, and eagerly swung his legs up to latch around the branch he clung to. 

Once he got his legs up, he was left with the perplexing problem of how to right himself upon the tree limb. There were no branches nearby that he could use to pull himself up with and nothing for him to grab onto. Frowning slightly, he shifted, turning carefully, so that his head faced the trunk before manuevering so that he was quite near it. That accomplished, he made sure his feet were wrapped quite securely about the limb, and dared removed his hands to press upon the trunk, using the bark as the handholds he did not have, and painstakingly moving himself higher until he was nearer the top of the branch. After much scrabbling and more than a few heart-stopping close calls, Estel was successfully perched upon the branch. 

Shakily, he stood and began moving higher so he could see further. HIs courage failed him before he could go as high as his brothers, the way the limbs trembled beneath his weight matching the quailing of his heart until he decided he could go no further, that he was quite high enough, thank you very much. He glanced down and found about twenty feet sepearating him from solid earth, and quickly returned his attention to about him, fiercly scolding himself to attend to his purpose. He needed to find that pool, and fast, or he would have to go home and tell his Ada that while he had succeeding in surviving three days, he would not have managed a greater number and that he was not ready. That was something he did not want to do. 

A smile once again split his lips, then, when the objct of his search flashed briefly in the light from the sun. A triumphant _whoop_ passed his lips, followed by an undignified squeak as his balance was momentarily compromised by his enthusiasm. He clung to the tree until he steadied, then more camly considered how he was to get down. That was one of those bad things about trees: they were always easier to ascend than descend. 

Carefully, and clinging closely to the branches in his path, he attempted to duplicate the path he had taken when coming up, finding reversing the climb abohorently more difficult than he had thought the original effort had entailed. He was forced to start and stop a couple times when one of the branches below him kept disappearing every time he had to reach blinding back to try and find it. But eventually, it decided to stay where it was supposed to be, and he continued down. A dozen feet from the ground, he paused to rest, the effort of holding his weight tiring his arms. It was quite beautiful up here, and if it had to take so long to undo what he had laboriously done, why not enjoy the beauty of his perch? 

It was then that mother nature decided to show him he was wrong: no matter how difficult or easy he considered it to get up, it was always a hundred times easier to get down. A howl to his left made him jump, momentarily forgetting his was in a tree. His fott slipped and he tipped backwards. His arms flailed out, but missed the branch and he watched in horror as the limbs receeded from his eyes. He felt a scream gathering in his chest, buthis throat was too tight to grant it passage. 

He hit the ground with a hard thud, the air escaping his lungs with a harsh _whoosh_, as his chest contracted without his consent and refused to expand again for agonizingly long seconds during which he floundered. His head sturck the ground and lights, blindingly bright, flashed before his eyes. Pain sparked up his elbow and radiated from his tailbone, but every last one disappeared after a few minutes of stillness. Estel dared not move even after the pain faded, lest it prove a joke on their part and the pain would return the moment he dared to return to any semblance of normal activity. It had happened before. 

Eventually, his desire to move overcame his reluctance towards pain, and he rolled onto his side carefully, trying to give his body enough time to get used to moving again in the hopes that it would not protest as it was wont to do. HIs head throbbed as he changed position, and the world swam out of focus before reluctantly returning, and his elbow twinged painfullly. His lungs did not seem to want to let him breath correctly, either, but aside from that he did not feel the worse for wear, and he knew where he had to go now. His sense of accomplishment helping to erase whatever aches and pains he now sported, the youth pushed himself to a vertical position and began walking. 

~*~ 

Aragorn paused his story with a smile as Legolas handed him a bowl of stew with a small shake of his head. "Strider, I think you would do well to stay away from anything that gives you room to fall." 

The man laughed. "I would love to, mellon nin," he replied. "But fate seems to not want to let me, else it would let me avoid them as I want to." 

The elf prince smiled and swallowed a spoonful of stew, his eyes thoughtful. "Why do I get the feeling falling from that tree was the least of your concerns?" 

"Because you are always right?" asked Aragorn with a raised eyebrow. 

Legolas smirked. "That must be it." He took another bite and watched his friend do the same. "But truly, you do not expect me to believe you fell twelve feet and accrued no injuries." 

"I did not say I was not injured," protested the ranger. "I merely said I did not feel any pain." 

"Uh huh. Well, eat your stew. Then I must insist you continue." 

Aragorn laughed, but obediently did as he was told, enjoying the warmth of the stew as it settled in his stomach, the heat chasing away the last of the chill that had lingered inside him. 

Legolas watched the river, the silence returning the pinched concern to his face that the man had observed when he first awoke but which had been banished upon seeing his friend awake. He blinked at the elf, struggling to read the look behind those shuttered blue eyes. Failing, he decided to ask. "What troubles you, my friend?" 

Blue eyes blinked, and the elf looked at him, startled. "Why do you ask?" 

_Stalling,_ Aragorn thought. _You only stall when it is something you fear I will react badly to._ That, of course, concerned the human, but he did not let it show. "Your thoughts are distant and sad, and do not even try to say you are imagining all the trouble I could have run into in my youth after a rather graceless tumble from a tree. It is something else or you would not be so loath to share it." 

Legolas sighed. "You are right. It deals with your brothers, Aragorn. We do not know where they are, and now we have been swept horribly off course, days away from our intended destination. There is nowhere to cross this far south, and back-tracking will add days to our travel. There is also no place between hear and our original destination where we can obtain supplies, and we can not continue on to the havens so underprovisioned. The closest town of any significance that I can think of for us to travel to would be Bree, unless you know of one closer we might stop at." 

Aragorn frowned, then stood to gain a better look around. They had entered Minhiriath past the Sarn Ford and were likely little more than a hundred miles from the sea. It had been long since any elves had claimed these lands, and Aragorn knew well there was no help to be had this far south for at least a hundred miles in any direction. Bitter indeed was the fate that swept him so far off course when his brothers might be in need of aid. 

Slowly, he shook his head. "I know not how we should go. Mayhap such a decision will be clearer in the morning, as we can go nowhere tonight." Silver eyes caught blue and the elf nodded. 

"Aye, we can go nowhere just now." 

Idly, Aragorn finished off the rest of his stew, his eyes turned towards the river and away from the fire that brightened the gathering dusk. The last of the light was just sinking towards the horizon, and it was with a heavy heart that he admitted to himself, not just to Legolas, that they could not travel further this night. He was in no shape to go anywhere without more rest, and he knew Ardevui required a breather after having sprinted so far to save his neck from stupidity. He could not ask her to go further, and his eyes sought out the lump not far away that was the elven horse, already fast asleep. 

He could only imagine what fate had befallen the twins, and what he could imagine he did not like. It was difficult to remind himself that they still did not know for certain the twins were in any trouble. _Aside from my dreams_, he amended, but dreams could be simply that: dreams. It was likely they were well and would get a good laugh over the ranger nearly killling himself after having worked himself into a frenzy over their absence. 

At least, those were the words he repeated in the depths of his mind, the assurances his heart would not heed. If he managed to be honest with himself, he did not think they would find the twins well. And if he wanted to be brutally honest, he did not think they would find word of the twins at the havens. 

By now, those they had traveled with had likely already crossed the sea to the Undying Lands. Those Halbarad had named had desired to leave Middle-earth quickly, as best the ranger knew. Years had they spent in a last farewell to the lands they had claimed as home, wandering between the elven lands to say their farewells. Nothing would have bound them longer than was necessary to see to their departure. A week or more was plenty of time to see them on their way, and Elladan and Elrohir would have not remained long. 

No, if he wished to be truthful with himself, they would learn nothing of his brothers' fates from traveling to the havens, except perhaps to learn that they had left there, too, weeks ago. At least, it would be weeks ago now, for it would take them at least a week to backtrack, gain supplies and continue to the havens. Ardevui would not be able to travel as fast for as long if she had to also support his weight, and she would need to unless they were to walk until they were able to resupply, and possibly even after that if they could not procure a second horse. 

He tried not to feel as if his brothers' lives were slipping away between his fingers like fine sand through his clenched fist. It felt like the harder he tried to find them, the quicker they slipped away. He frowned, then sighed. 

"Do not brood so, mellon nin," a quiet voice bid, and the ranger jumped, looking up guiltily at Legolas. "We will find them." 

Aragorn nodded, gathering his resolve as he took a deep breath before letting it out with a promise not to quit until he had found them, no matter how long it took. That he would have done the same without the promise was a given, but it felt better, somehow, to make it formal . . . final. "We must," he agreed softly. 

A small smile graced the elf prince's lips after a moment of solemn contemplation. Trying to raise his friend's spirits, if Aragorn knew Legolas at all. "Now, how about you tell me what trouble you found after falling from the tree so I do not have to imagine it." 

The ranger opened his mouth to comply-- 

A tremendous crash drowned out whatever sounds might have slipped past his lips, and he jumped, turning towards the trees and struggling to his feet, nearly tripping on the fabric wrapped around him. His hand just barely closed around the hilt of his sword. Legolas stood a few feet before him, poised at the ready. Together, they faced the threatening darkness of the trees. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

__

__Tychen: Okay, this isn't asap, but it's still here! *g* I'm glad you loved it. 

Konjurer: Thank you! *sigh* More evidence of procrastination: while I've finished writing the essays, I have yet to mail them off. Hmm. You know, it's so interesting to have people point out all the things that make my fic good, because I think of none of them when I write it. I don't even realize most of them. Lol. Reality tv, hm? Never thought about it that way. *g* 

Grumpy: Ooh, yes, trouble. It's not really ahead, it's more to the side. . . . *g* lol. Yes, down horsie. Lol. Hm, yes, I suppose it would be nice to wipe his face. I think Legolas did that while we weren't watching. *g* Thanks for the prod! You're the reason this is getting posted now. I think I might have put it off again otherwise. *bows gallantly* 

NaughtyNat: lol. Turns out you reviewed early. *g* Right. Extended is the only version worth having. I understand completely. I'm like that about so many things (all of them stories, movies) that it's not even funny. I'll have to give the plot bunny thing some thought, see which ones I can bear to give up. If you have any preferences for characters, let me know, kay? Oh, good. Summaries are a pain in the butt. Lol. Well, they got a break here. Sort of. Lol. I never gave the horse spit a moment of thought after I started writing it. Must've been repression. *g* Ooh, hate dog spit. Won't let my dog lick me I hate it so much. I'm surprised he likes me. Very greatly anticipated. *g* I laugh so hard. Sorry you didn't get the post, though. I thought about, almost did it, but I got distracted. *g* 

Nerfenderder: Hm, I'm sure he could have, but I just couldn't get you there. So sorry. *g* I bow to your applause. Lol. So what did you think of my little young Aragorn story? *raises eyebrows* 

Singing Wolf: Yes, all you really need to do to figure out how it would feel to hit water is do a belly flop and magnifiy it. *g* That hurts so bad. I appreciate your opinion on my Legolas characterization. It's nice to have an outside view. I can't manage it. It's invaluable to me, as is your view on the jokes and teasing. If I haven't included more evidence of respect here (I suddenly can't remember) I will keep it in mind for later. It was an observation that hovered in the back of my mind that I couldn't quite put my feeling on. For all that I write, I have a terrible time putting things like that into words. Oh, that's not rambling! That's helpful. Feel free to do it again. My thanks. *g* 


	9. Bump in the Night

Hey all! I said Friday or Saturday, and it's now Sunday (at least according to my clock) but since I haven't gone to bed yet, I'm going to say it's still yesterday. *g* That's means I'm not late. Ta-da! Lol. 

I shall try, though I haven't looked at the next chapter yet to figure out how much work will need to be done on it, to have the next chapter out no later than next Saturday. It's terrible I can't remember what happens in my own chapters. Anyway, for all those who like pointless details, when I revised this chapter, it grew by nearly two thousand words and is now the longest chapter on file by six hundred words. Great, isn't it. Forgive me if it's bad, but I'm sure it's better than it was so I hope you'll forgive me. 

Thank you so, so much for your reviews! I enjoyed each of them immensely. I'm sorry I made you miss me. *ducks head sheepishly* I was appalled at myself for taking so long, honest, but I can procrastinate when I want to, and when I'm distracted by reading, writing (or posting) isn't exactly high on my list of priorities. Anyway, with any luck, I won't be so distracted anytime soon. . . . Though actually finding Harry Potter stories that I like make me less inclined to actually write one. Strange, that. 

Now, onto the fic. Responses are at the bottom. Must I still beg you to review? *looks up with huge puppy dog eyes* Please? Review? 

Enjoy.****

****

**Chapter 9**

Keen eyes and tense bodies faced off against the darkness, their backs to the river that had brought them here, a quiet backdrop that served to cover any slight noises that might have helped them identify the threat. Weapons were held at the ready, poised to strike at the first indication of need, the barest hint of movement, the slightest whisper of doom. . . . 

They were ready, tense, yet no sound presented itself to their ears to warrant such preparation and no movement gave away the presence of anyone but themselves in the forsaken lands of long ago. The silence taunted their fear, daring them to maintain their vigilance in the absence of any cause lest the cause appear once their vigilance was gone to the doom of all. Sharp eyes ceaselessly scanned the veil of trees. 

Aragorn shifted anxiously in his stance involuntarily. The air was cold and it swept past the cloak about his shoulders easily now that he could no longer hold it tight about his form. The fabric floated slightly in the soft press of air. He did his best to ignore the creeping chill and focus past himself into the woods before them that were covered in shadow. As a ranger, he had plenty of experience ignoring his own discomfort, but it was proving somewhat difficult with no threat before him, the adrenaline that had forced any such considerations from his mind slowly fading away while the pain from his unexpected bath reasserted itself. 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to calm his bodies reactions, and his teeth chattered annoyingly on the exhale--human frailties. Legolas was a still pillar of strength beside him, unmoving and calm. He was solid proof how steadfast his race was in the face of danger, how unwavering, and the ranger drew upon his friend's reserve to maintain his own as his body grew cold. He knew lowering his defenses could prove fatal, if not for himself then for Legolas. That had been proven to him more than once, and he would not repeat it here. 

So despite the fact that nothing moved, they stood. And stared. The fire burned and jumped between them, casting flighty shadows around the pair as the light shifted, as though anxious in its confinement. Light, usually a comfort in the dark, provided no such solace here, its strength not enough to do anything more than deepen the shadows that surrounded them, seemingly halted by the incredibly tall trees that stood before them as unmoving pillars, both comforting and menacing to the ranger who viewed them. He wished he could hear them. 

The ranger licked his lips. He could not tell how long they had been standing ready, but he was nearly sure something should have happened by now. His eyes darted quickly to his friend "Do you hear anything, Legolas? See anything?" 

"No," admitted the elf quietly, his brow furrowing with his own confusion at the inaction, the failure of whoever had disturbed them to move on their attack. "The trees whisper no danger, yet they do not speak of peace, either." That said, he returned to silent watchfulness, waiting. Yet the sound that had split the gloom was gone as if it had never been, nothing left to mark its presence except their insistence that it had been so. 

"Mayhap we should cheek it out," Aragorn suggested hesitantly. He wondered if his hesitancy came through in voice but he knew that his own jumping nerves would not allow him any peace of mind until he and Legolas had checked their surroundings. 

It could easily be nothing. Strange sounds were heard often in the wilderness of nature, but it could also be something. It was the something it could possibly be that worried both friends, for they had had their faire share of experiences with the darkness that wandered Middle-earth, orcs not being the only foul thing that walked and breathed upon the faltering lands. 

Legolas nodded slowly. "Aye. We may as well have a look." 

Aragorn did not have to guess why the elf was so hesitant. He had seen--quite by accident--the half look the first-born had cast his way, and knew the other had half a mind to demand he stay here while the elf went and had a look. That Legolas had not voiced that intention showed he knew his friend quite well. Aragorn was glad; he did not want to have to argue with his friend right now. 

He knelt carefully, lowering himself to the ground beside the fire and quickly prepared a torch for their use. Legolas may be able to see quite well in the dark, but no matter how sharp his eyes were, he was still human and would never have the ease of sight that the first-born enjoyed. That done, he stood and the two friends exchanged meaningful glances before quietly entering the trees. 

The quiet roar of fire consuming cloth was loud in his ears as the silence of the forest pressed at him, the insects still quiet, though there were few to begin with due to winter's approaching chill. His footsteps echoed loudly though they were dampened by the soft growth beneath his feet, and he resisted the urge to cringe, slowly sweeping the light back and forth as they searched the woods for any sign of a threat. It was hard not to remember that whoever their opponents were, they already knew where the elf and ranger were present, regardless of how quiet they walked. Legolas tread next to him, steps silent as the grave, seeming not to hear his companions loud steps. 

How long they looked, Aragorn could not say, but he had convinced himself they were not about to wander into any orcs. After all, no matter whose orders they followed, they would never be content to simply let their prey wander around or among them for so long without giving away their presence. For that, he was glad. He was even beginning to come to the conclusion that no one hid in the shadows waiting to ambush them, and knew Legolas was coming to the same resolution. But what had it been? 

Eventually, they arrived before a fallen tree that blocked their path. It's roots had been partially pulled from the ground and dirt had been sprayed in various directions, its spattering misplaced among the blanket of leaves as it provided a break from the normal texture of the area. Green leaves not yet touched by the chill of winter decorated its branches, still healthy and not yet withered from lack of sustenance nor faded as from the approach of death. Slowly, Aragorn lowered his sword. Legolas' bow soon followed, the arrow he had knocked returned to his quiver with a quick movement. 

The elf walked forward a few steps, searching around the area, looking for footsteps or signs that someone else had helped the aged tree fall. His eyes watched intently, and he stepped around several times, occasionally venturing away from it, but he did not redraw his weapon, and soon stopped before his friend, standing easily. 

"It was a tree," the elf observed, his expression neutral and his voice bland. 

As comically obvious as that sounded, Aragorn only nodded, his gaze slipping past his friend to the tree against his will. He stared at it in apparent fascination for several moments, so long, in fact, that Legolas frowned worriedly at him before glancing back at the tree. He shook himself. "So it seems," he said finally. 

Legolas turned to look at him, his eyes glowing in the golden light. "Are you all right, Strider?" He inquired curiously. 

Aragorn nodded and smiled slightly. "Of course." His friend did not believe him, that much was obvious, yet the elf did not press him. He was grateful, and wondered if he would have such restraint, if their positions were reversed. The ranger decided it was time to lighten the mood. So he teased, "We are far too jumpy, my friend." 

"The result of one too many close calls," Legolas agreed calmly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I am glad this is not another one." 

He nodded. "I guess we know the answer, then." 

Legolas shot his a quick, perturbed frown, caught between amusement and confusion, only to relax to wary curiosity a moment later. One could not stay around the young ranger long without learning he had a habit of making inane comments. "What? To what question." 

"How many people it takes to determine a tree has fallen." 

"Who asked that?" The elf asked curiously, one eyebrow raised imperiously. He still looked wary, but he wanted to know the answer more than he cared to admit. 

Aragorn sheathed his sword and shrugged. "No one," he replied carelessly, pulling the cloak tightly around him once more, for the first time since the tremendous crash taking note of his bare feet. He peered down at them and wiggled his toes, slightly surprised he could still feel them. "But now we know the answer is two: one ranger and an elf." 

Legolas stared at him a moment, then snorted. "Let's return, human. Then you can finish your story, and I can laugh at how much trouble you managed to find, and then we can both rest and be refreshed for tomorrow." 

The ranger glared at the fair-haired elf, not quite managing to banish the hint of a smile that hovered around his lips. He lifted his chin, doing a fair impression of haughty royalty himself, and sniffed "Very well, prissy elf. Let us go." 

*~*~*~*~* 

The wood was silent, still. One might even say nervous--if one was inclined to attribute such things to a forest. Any creatures that resided in this place had gone away, taking the normal sounds of nature with them, and the insects had fled before the cold. It could have been a painting, cast in shades of brown and gray, the lines of the trees cast in sharp relief even in the poor light. From this stillness, a shadow jumped. 

A cloaked and hooded figure crouched easily in the shadow, having just jumped from a short rise that was bordered by a fallen tree, the roots visible where they had been yanked from the ground many months earlier. 

For a moment, the figure was still, blending almost perfectly into the landscape when it should have continued on. Then pale, slender hands emerged from the gloom, moving up and slowly pushing back the dark hood. It fell back to reveal a fair face and bright blue eyes. Long brown hair continued beneath the edge of the cloak. 

The girl looked around quickly, her eyes darting to the trees, searching out hidden forms in the maze and shadows before her before looking to the churned ground upon finding none. The soil was a pale, nearly sickly looking gray, lacking any hint of growth or life, and continued into the distance on her left, towards Mordor, and southwest towards her destination. Deep impressions gave it an uneven texture she would not have expected which could not be accounted for by inclement weather--which there had been none of recently. Her brow furrowed as she recognized the marks for what they were. 

Footprints. 

Worse, even, was that she knew them to be orc-made. The misshapen beasts tread heavy over the earth, their iron sod feet biting deeply into the soil and anything foolish enough to cross their path, destroying any life that dared encroach upon the hallowed ground. Large and deep, they were distinctive, especially to one who had long put up with their presence. 

Her lips pressed together in irritation and she traced the tracks back from whence they came, following them until they faded form sight, erased by her proximity to the ground and the gloom, vanishing into the distance. Then she stood and looked still further. There was no way to be sure--not, at least, without following the trail to its completion--but she felt sure these had come from Mordor; and she had reasons for her belief. 

Sauron had plans, plans she had not even brushed the surface of, plans that no one knew save him and his most trusted few, and most of those were not overt, clashing sword, in one's face battles. There were other things he had planned, and it did not require a genius to realize that he was not content to simply cower within his mountain fortress. No, recently he had begun hoarding his resources, drawing them ever closer, clinging almost jealously, even as he stretched out his hand to gain more. Few noticed his movements, and no one on the outside seemed to understand what they meant. Even she did not, and she had been part of those preparations. 

Blue eyes stared off towards Mordor, dark and reflective without any hint of emotion, no longer tracing the path the orcs had tread. She stared, and wondered at the emotions that curled through her, rising inside her as the tide. They were tumultuous, alternately light and dark, longing and revulsion, hope and fear, glee and sorrow. They tumbled, but none of it reached her face. 

With some difficulty, she turned her eyes away and looked towards the path she was to take. A memory flashed before her eyes, a time when she had treat this path before and looked upon the same trees with younger and different eyes, a memory sparked by dark thoughts. Then it was gone, and she stood alone among twisted trees, ruined by darkness. Her eyes darkened, becoming stormy with anger. 

The Dead Camp, that was what it was called, had been called for as long as Sauron had claimed dominion in Middle-earth when those that had resided there had been driven away, forced to flee or perish by the coming dark. Nothing good ever happened there, cut off as it was. No Light long survived the Dark. 

Wordlessly, emotionlessly, she stood. This was the crossroads; the last true chance she had of turning back; the point where she had to choose, had to affirm the choice she had already made or turn back. Whispers seemed to swirl around her, dark with promise. A hesitant breeze caressed her form briefly before fading away, and a weight settled on her shoulders. Yet even as the thoughts, the doubts, flitted through her mind, she knew they were a lie. 

There was no turning back. There never was. 

Her shoulders dropped as from a sigh but no answering exhalation stirred the air. Then, without a word or hesitation, she started off again, moving stealthily among the shadows as one born to them and seemed to fade from sight. Too far had she yet to travel with no notion of how long she had to accomplish her task before her efforts were in vain to dwell in shadows. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Legolas and Aragorn returned to the camp to find the large, anxious eyes of Ardevui shining at them in the fire light. Her whinny of relief upon seeing her master was clearly heard, and the elf walked over to soothe her while the human walked over to the fire, eager to relieve the creeping chill and block out the cold. 

He wrapped the cloak tight about him, then stuck one brave hand out to stoke the fire, sitting as close as he dared to the restless flames. His torch he settled among the other branches to be consumed with the rest, the addition sparking the bright flames higher, and he stared into their depths, losing himself as his body warmed and his tensions eased. To be so startled by a tree! 

It was with chagrin mixed with acceptance that the ranger admitted they had had cause for such concern and overreaction, that his and Legolas' track record when it came to danger did not lend themselves to offhandedly accepting out of place noises in abandoned places without reaping some kind of dubious reward for their complacency. 

He sighed, exhaling his weary breath through his nose. No, with their luck, had they dismissed the incidence, they would have had a whole horde of orcs breathing down their necks before one could say "Elbereth." Then they would have yelled in fury for the sheer audacity of even daring to breath the word, much less to do so in their presence and attacked without a second thought. It was not the most encouraging existence to reside in, one that promised pain and death--or at the very least constant peril--if ever they dared let down their guard, only to find such vigilance unnecessary when they had it and lacking when they needed it. 

The ranger shook his head slightly, denying the thoughts even as they popped into his mind, scattered as they were. Yet they was not true, not quite. No, such was their luck that they did not need to drop their guard for trouble to find them, though dropping it sure aided trouble in catching them. He snorted. Not that trouble needed any help there, either. 

Silver eyes looked up as Legolas approached the fire and settled down near him. He smiled tiredly at the elf, his body reminding him it was not well, and most assuredly not happy. 

Legolas sighed lightly. "I do believe no one shall ever be able to say our lives were dull," he announced cheerfully. Aragorn snorted. Blue eyes watched him closely, and he stared back attentively, attempting to convince the elf that he was fine and not tired before the other could question him. He did not think it worked, but the elf did not mention sleep. In fact, he seemed to have been quite serious about hearing the rest of his take upon their return. "Now, do continue, mellon nin. I simply must know what brilliant situation you fell into next." 

The young man groaned, then shifted into a more comfortable position before looking up into the elf's blue eyes with a wince, smiling. "The tree wasn't enough?" 

"No. You fell from that not into it" 

Aragorn glared at him, scandalized. "And to think I proposed this story out of the goodness of my heart, and all you can do is tease me." He stared at the elf expectantly for a moment, but the elf just stared back. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right, then," he answered, turning to stare into the flames as his mind traveled back, once more, to that spring. "I managed to crawl to my feet and start off for the pool I had seen, reasonably sure I was not in dire peril and convinced I had escaped my fall without a scratch." 

"There was a scratch?" the elf interrupted. 

"No, not a scratch, but I did not leave so unscathed as I had thought, though nothing as permanent as my father would have feared had he known about the fall at the time. From my fall, I gained a concussion, mostly mild, and a bruised tailbone, and managed to fracture a couple of ribs--hairline things that likely would have healed on their own with me never the wiser had that fall been the worst of my troubles." 

"But it wasn't." 

Aragorn shot him a patient glared. "No," Aragorn affirmed with the air of one speaking to an overexcited child. "But you already knew this, unless you have not been listening to me. In any case, I walked, and I walked and walked. My eyesight, keen as it was for a human, had failed to appreciate how truly far away that watering hole was, and however tired I had been after my walk to gain the border's edge, it was still nothing compared to the exhaustion I felt by the time my goal came into view. . . ." 

~*~ 

Estel's breath labored in his chest as he struggled to keep going, exhaustion like he had never known making his limbs feel as if they weighed a hundred pounds each and the effort to move them more than he felt the endeavor deserved, but he was not to be gainsaid, and he kept going. The youth was simultaneously glad and chagrined to feel the air temperature dropping about him, a chill that had not been present earlier nipping at his skin. He had felt overly warm before and had desired to cool down, but now sweet sheened his body, and the cool air was doing more than just providing a respite from the warmth of the day. 

The lad stumbled forward a few more steps, and dragged his eyes up from watching his feet, studying the next few steps across the endless ground he had to traverse, to see how much further he had to go in the long run. Expecting to see endless plain before him, broken by only the occasional tree (occassional as compared to the forest he had left to reach the place), he was surprised to note his destination finally near at hand. Closer than he had expected, but still far away. The glimmering of the blue water in the lessened rays of light looked like a blessing. 

He was nearly there! New determination flooded him and he continued forward with more speed, forgetting that making the watering hole was only part of his problem, and not entirely sure how to go about solving the rest of it. At the moment, he wanted naught but a drink of water--to feel the cool, refreshing liquid splashing into his mouth and slipping down his dry and scratchy throat, easing the sticky closeness that had come upon him during his long walk. 

The human stumbled forward, his steps not quite steady yet nearly silent. Finding the strength to go on was so hard, but he was not a son of Elrond for nothing, and surrender was not a word he was familiar with, the prolonged battles with the twins past all reasonable expectations of success proved that, and failure was a notion he would not accept. The boy wanted nothing more than to please the elven lord who had claimed him as his own and show his brothers that he was not worthless nor helpless. 

They never claimed he was, never hinted that he was anything but a special person that was loved greatly. They were always supportive and patient when he did not get things as quickly as he thought he should, but that did not stop him from feeling disappointed in himself. That also did not stop him from hearing the remarks of others. 

Oh, no one was so bold as to actually say any disparaging remarks to his face, but he saw their faces, saw the disgust in their eyes, the certainty that he was human, mortal, and could never be as good as them. He heard the whispers that persisted when his brothers and father were not around and they thought he could not hear. He heard their disdain for his kind, how little regard they held for men, and knew that he would have to prove himself to them, prove that he was different. 

Estel dropped to his knees as he arrived at the water's edge, the clear water of the pool sparkling blue about him. He dipped his hand into the water, its coolness startling a hiss from him, and cupped his hand, raising the cool liquid to his mouth. It felt glorious going down his throat and eased the dry rasping that had plagued him, just as he knew it would. A little of the headache that had pounded away at his mind eased. He dipped his hand again and took another drink. Then another. When he had drunk his fill, he sat back on his heels and looked around. 

No other creatures shared the space with him, and he was quite alone. Multitudes of prints gave testament to the fact that this was a widely used pool, popular with the animals that called these lands home. He nodded, satisfied. Every animal needed water to live and would come to wet its throat, and all he had to do was wait. 

The youth pushed back, wincing slightly as his tailbone protested the brief pressure he put upon it, and moved away from the water. Finding a tree, he leaned against it, then hesitantly slid down to a sitting position against the trunk, moving slowly so as to cause himself as little pain as possible. Then he sat very still and waited. 

These were two things he knew how to do very well. Elves were not easily startled, and were even more difficult to sneak up on. If one wanted to know what they sought to keep hidden, it was difficult to learn anything, unless they did not know you were there. While Estel had yet to manage the art of stalking, of moving silently enough across his surroundings as to surprise an elf, he had learned that one need not search out the objects of one's attentions, but wait for said object to come all its own. After all, elves walked and talked like all others, and while they were certainly quite observant, they did not always notice _everything_. If a boy sat quiet enough and did not speak, did not move, barely breathed, he could be simply overlooked. No one would notice him, and Estel had gotten quite good at not being noticed. Sometimes it paid to go unnoticed. 

The sixteen-year-old figured this was one of those times. After all, how likely was it that a creature you planned to kill was going to simply walk up to you and say "please eat me?" Not likely at all, considering animals can not talk, but that was beside the point. What was important, was figuring out how he was going to kill the animal that was to become his meal. From there, how was he going to cook it? 

The lad was beginning to seriously doubt the advisability of his plan, especially as he had no idea how one went about cooking something without any supplies. Killing it he was not so obtuse about, if only because the twins had not been able to shelter him as completely as they would have liked when they had journeyed into a village, small and untidy, a couple years back. He had seen those men fight, had seen the one strike the other, and know that man would never rise again. He did not like it, but he thought that if he needed to, he could do it. That worry, of course, presupposed he had an animal before him to even think about striking. 

He sighed and leaned his head back against the tree trunk, pulling his legs up closer to him and resting his wrists atop his knees, his hands dangling between his legs. Maybe hunting was not such a good idea on this test, but what else did one eat? He had gone hunting with the twins before, but all their food had been prepared in the kitchens or cooked over open flame when they had snagged a hare or other such little creature. But there had to be other things to eat, did there not? He knew elves did not only eat meat, but where would he find the other stuff, the herbs and vegetables that comprised the meals he ate at home? 

Estel frowned and looked around, freezing suddenly as his eyes alighted on a deer that warily approached the lake from the east side, roughly a quarter of the circle away from him. He stopped breathing as he watched the graceful animal, smooth muscles moving beneath shining fur. Intelligent, caring eyes, wide in a peaceful face scanned the area before he approached some more, cautious. The boy did not want to do anything that would scare the deer away, even if he did not catch him for dinner. 

Watching deer move had always been fascinating to him. They were so graceful and noble-looking, even when they were surprised and he wished he could manage even a tenth of their grace. In some ways, deer reminded him of elves; he was not sure if that was something he wanted to admit to anyone or not. A small smile pulled at his lips. 

Then the deer's head came up and his posture stilled, alert. From where they boy sat, he could see the deer's tail had come up, and he watched the creature look around. The human recognized that look: danger. His skin prickled and he could not decide if he should move or stay still. A part of his mind said he could just stay still and he would go unnoticed while another screamed that he needed to move. 

A growl sounded from his left and the human tensed, closing his eyes briefly before looking to the side without moving his head. Across from him, the deer bounded away, disappearing from view in the blink of an eye. _To be a deer,_ Estel thought. _Then I could bound away from trouble, too._

Another growl, low and menacing, closer, made his blood freeze and his heart pound double-time in his chest. His right fingers, clenched in the ground by his side, ached for a sword, a bow, even a dagger just so long as he had _something_ more than just himself. With painful slowness, he risked turning his head a couple inches to the left, hoping to catch sight of what threatened him. 

His heart sank when he saw the wolf, likely an alpha-male if his size was anything to go by. The beast was _huge_. His mouth looked like it could swallow his head with no problem and his fangs were at least as long as his fingers. His paws dwarfed the human boy, and slitted yellow eyes stared straight at wide silver. Estel swallowed hard. This was not good. 

Moving would likely be a good idea now. Being anywhere but here was likely a good idea. He knew it was too late, but he dearly wished he had just waited inside the borders instead of venturing past them. Wolves were not what he had had in mind when he decided he wanted to find an animal to eat. A nice little bunny rabbit or something equally small, but not a great, big, hulking wolf! 

The human slid as much as he dared, desperate to look around him for somewhere to go, to find a place to hide and get away from the great brute, but he dared not tear his eyes from the yellow ones that watched him, teeth bared. Did wolves smell fear? He thought he remembered hearing something like that. If it were true, Estel was sure he reeked. 

Gathering his courage--trying to--the boy began cautiously pushing himself to his feet, shifting his feet back so he remained with his back pinned to the tree. He stopped, though, when the wolf crouched lower and the rumbling growl became more menacing. The huge paws inched forward, resettling, and the sharp claws flashed in the pale light. Thick saliva gathered on his fangs and dripped to the ground. 

Estel licked his lips nervously and decided he had nothing to lose by moving. If he stayed where he was, the wolf would eventually attack him. If he moved, maybe he could get away. Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside him at that thought._ Get away from _that!_ Not likely!_ Hesitantly, he edged backwards. 

Rumbles behind him, growls, made him freeze. _Valar! This isn't fair!_ he thought petulantly, then risked a glance behind him. Three more wolves stood crouched, teeth bared behind him. Between them, the water, and the tree, he had nowhere to go. He glanced above him. Could he get up in the tree? He did not think so. 

But then the wolf jumped and he had no time for thought, no time for anything, and with nowhere else to go, he jumped. His hands stretched for the branch that he had just barely glimpsed above his head and he prayed that he could reach it, that he could pull himself up into its safety and escape the sharp teeth that lunged at him with fierce abandon. He felt rough bark scrape his fingers, felt his fingers curl around the limb and clutch tightly at the saving grace it presented, safe. Then he screamed. 

Fire tore through his leg, hot and blinding, burning away any reason that remained to ground his mind, and tears sprung to his eyes. Weight pulled down on him and he momentarily pulled back, stubborn rebellion sparking in his mind for a brief moment before the pain washed it all away, fanned higher as nerves shrieked in agony, and he let go. The bark scraped his palms as he was pulled down. A solid form appeared behind him, and he collapsed backwards across the furry hide of the wolf, his leg still held firmly in its mouth. His leg sharply protested the harsh treatment it was getting as he shifted, muscle ripped and shredded by sharp teeth, only to be drowned out when his head hit the ground and white lights flashed before his eyes, blanking out everything, followed quickly by black and the briefest moments of blissful silence. 

Then he was staring up at the tree, the green leaves and safety of its branches so far away as to be a different land and he was screaming, renewed fire biting at his land. He wanted it to stop! It had to stop! He kicked, mindless of the pain that sent sparking through his being, and twisted, desperate to leave. His foot found and struck something solid, and he did it again. A whimper was his reward and satisfaction flowed through his veins--erased a moment later when gray flashed between his eyes and the green poised above him. 

Sharp claws dug into his chest and he squirmed but had nowhere to go as the beast's weight pressed him firmly to the ground. He kicked again, but no resisting force met his foot. Another scream rent his throat, surprise forgoing any thought as the fire jumped from one leg to the other. His back arched, his hands flung out, catching something sharp and wet and he lashed out with anything and everything he had. Cloth ripped, barely heard, and he twisted. More fire flowed down his back and across his shoulders, and he rolled and kicked, screaming bloody murder as it was the only thing he could think to do. 

Then he was up--sort of up--and staggering without any thought of what he was staggering to. Blood dripped into his face and down his back, down his legs, and they did not want to support his weight, did not want to let him move, but he did anyway, only to lose his breath and his momentum in the next moment as a heavy body slammed into him and bore him to the ground. Something in his chest gave, and he thought some kind of pain might have shimmered through his form, but his mind was too far away to register it, and he rolled, some instinct he did not know how to ignore telling him he could not stay still, that he had to move. 

He did, and he pushed himself to his feet, moving on adrenaline and whatever determination fueled him--fear, desperation, he could not say, but he lurched forward. His feet did not hold him and he dove head first, cold water surprising him enough that he gasped, water gushing into his mouth before engulfing his body. He came up, sputtering and shivering from more than just cold, and was met with a splash. Matted fur followed him and he backed up, swimming desperately to place space between him and his attackers, lashing out once more with his legs, his mind callously ignoring the pain he was inflicting with the movement. More whimpers, high and sharp, met his ears, just audible over the loud splashes he was causing, then an unnatural kind of silence spread over the lands apart from the raucous he was causing and the lad gradually realized that he was no longer being attacked. 

Slowly, he halted his movements, water dripping into his eyes as he looked around, frantic, nearly wild silver eyes scanning his surroundings. He trembled, his violent shaking not quite accountable to the cold water he tread laboriously, and red spun lazily around him in the water, churned by his movements. Was it over? Nothing moved around him, the land as quiet as ever, the silence broken by the insects that always resided in the land, carrying on as they always did. 

It was that bit of normalcy, that familiar noise, that finally broke through his stunned thoughts to convince him it was over; the little critters never made their presence known when there was danger, and he began to painfully pull himself back to shore, the agony of the motion making him question how he had made it out in the first place. Yet stubborn pride availed him again and the boy made it back to shore, pulling himself onto the blood splattered land more than walking, and collapsed shortly thereafter, his breathing harsh and heavy. 

Never, ever, ever again. Ever. He would _never_ listen to his brother's again. They had the absolutely _worst_ ideas in the entire history of Arda, and he would be so lucky as to survive this one and tell them _no_ the next time they came to him with some brilliant scheme or some-such that sounded enchanting and dangerous and was sure to be more the latter than the former. Yes, he would learn from this and never listen to them again, if he survived to do so. 

The wind blew, more warm than cool, but it still sent shivers up his spine as the air was definitely colder than he was, and he dragged himself back into the real world and away from his thoughts to look for his cloak, sure it had to be somewhere nearby as he had not managed to get very far. The world wavered in front of his eyes, spinning and tipping, and he swayed to keep from falling as it did so though it would have been just as easy to lay down; the catch there was that if he laid down, he would never get back up. Then he started crawling, pulling himself along, and the trained healer in him, the part his father had worked so hard to cultivate by teaching him all manner of herbs, remedies, and poultices had a fit about how much dirt he was grinding into his open wounds, lamenting infections and the like, but he simply could not care, more concerned with procuring his cloak. 

When he reached it, he blinked blearily at the cloth and reached out a hand to lift it, staring blankly as parts of it fell off and the larger part proved useless for his purposes--namely keeping him warm. Blood matted it, and dirt was smeared across it, slashed by eager claws, and decorated with fur. He blinked again, then dropped the cloth and followed it with his head, which landed painfully on his arm. 

He was doomed. Not only was he bleeding, which would attract the foul beasts to him regardless that he had scared them off once, he was tired and sore, and far from home, ill-provisioned (non-provisioned, a sadistic part of his mind laughed), and bereft of the one thing he had been allowed to take with him. His father would surely kill him, if he did not manage it himself, that was. He frowned slightly as he tried to puzzle out in his muddled mind why he was trying to kill himself, or how he planned going about doing it when he did not have a sword, then gave it up. His lack of a sword--or any sharp object for that matter--was the cause of his problems, there was no reason to think he would be able to use a sword to solve them. 

Estel sighed and did not move. When he heard coarse voices and loud footsteps, felt evil permeate the air around him and dread settle in the pit of his stomach, he was too far gone to do more than groan. And that he did. 

_Why me? Why oh why?_ He did not have long to wonder, and some blessed soul in charge of protecting the youth (who did a very bad job) decided he had been awake long enough and shut his eyes. 

~*~ 

"I don't believe it," a voice said near him, and Aragorn dragged his eyes up from the flames to look into the wide-eyed face of a horrified Legolas. 

He smiled sleepily and eased down until he was laying on the ground, his head propped up by his hand and his elbow resting on the ground. "Oh, yes. Orcs." He yawned and waved a hand before him. "Thankfully, I remember almost none of it." 

The orcs were not the only thing he did not believe, and not really what he had been referring to, but they worked as well as anything else. After hearing about his friend's tangle with wolves so many years ago, he felt more than just a little bit sick and tried desperately not to picture what Aragorn would have looked like after his tango with those creatures. But the orcs. . . . 

"How did you get out of it?" Legolas asked, his brow furrowed, his mind sliding back to provide all manner of ill imaginings, some of them fueled by actually events (he had to forcefully pull himself away from those memories that wanted to push him back into dark thoughts) and more than a few ludicrous escapes. The man beside him did not answer and he turned to look at him, only to find Aragorn asleep, more or less, his eyes closed and his breathing slow. "Aragorn?" 

"Hm?" bleary silver eyes blinked open, and before the elf could repeat his question, spoke, "How did I get out?" proving he had heard more than the elf thought. "Well, I didn't. At least, I didn't do anything to help. A hunting party--more along the lines of Elladan and Elrohir's revenge motivated hunting parties, mind--stumbled upon the Orc camp quite by accident. Seems the Orcs became rather upset that their little play thing was not up to screaming for them." His eyes drifted shut as his voice trailed off slightly, sleep trying to steal him away. Then he shook himself partly out of it and looked at Legolas. "They were quite surprised to find the Orcs fighting amongst themselves with a human boy unconscious and bloody in their midst. Or rather, surprised at finding that human boy to be the foster son of Lord Elrond Peredhil." 

"I imagine so," agreed the elf softly, watching as the ranger's eyes drifted shut again of their own accord and his hand slipped from under his head so that he drifted toward the ground, arm stretched out like he was reaching for something that was too high for him. A smile stretched across Legolas' face. 

It was still oddly endearing to the elf to see the boy in the man, to stand witness to the fact that despite everything that had happened, Aragorn was still not quite the world-hardened man he appeared to anyone who did not know him, that he was more than just a mysterious ranger who held himself at arm's length and hid from the prying Eye of Sauron a heritage he did not desire. Somehow, it was, and the elf glanced up at the stars before rising and moving over to make his friend more comfortable and ensure he would be warm for the night, tucking the cloaks more firmly about the strong form. 

He brushed a bit of hair from Aragorn's face and smiled down at the peaceful face before him. "You can tell me the rest in the morning." Then he pressed a friendly kiss against the man's temple and moved away to stand watch. Just because nothing had been amiss earlier did not mean he would risk losing his friend to under-vigilance. 

The long hours of the night passed slowly in silence. 

*~*~*~*~* 

It was dark, the sun long past set but not quite ready to rise, the lands still and peaceful-- perfect in those first moments before the new day could truly begin. It was in these wee hours of the morning that Abyl labored, scrubbing tables with relentless ease, the task mind-numbingly boring and menial but required nonetheless. His father had kicked everyone out but a few hours ago and to him had fallen the task of washing the dishes, wiping the counter, scrubbing the tables, and cleaning the floor; a woman's work, but his mother was no longer with them, and this was the least he could do to aid his father and let him get a few hours sleep. Besides, he did not really mind the work. 

If nothing else, it gave him plenty of time to think, to consider any number of possibilities and wander in his own personal daydreams--or night-dreams, however one wished to view it--without interruption, and he did. It was strange to him to watch so many people live in a place they did not like and do things they did not enjoy doing only to wander into one of two pubs in the small town to attempt to drink their concerns away before crashing into bed late at night to continue in the same task the next day. It was confusing. What was the point? But these men, to his mind, had long passed beyond the bounds of rational thought, the possibility driven from their minds by harsh work and inhospitable weather, to be compounded by evil creatures that tore what lives they had apart at the slightest and most incomprehensible whim. At least, that was the story of the men who gathered to drink their woes away. 

Abyl knew their lot was not so terrible as that. It was the story of men who had not enough to occupy their minds and more than enough time to bemoan their fates. Few had chosen to reside here, but strangely none would choose to leave, almost as if they drew pleasure from complaining about a lot they could change if they had a mind to. It was maddening. 

Insane it was, and so Abyl did not mind working when none were present, free to disappear when everyone would be back and escape to the empty plains that surrounded their small town on every side, broken only by the river that flowed past nearly a hundred miles west of them, too far to do much good. Every so often, though, he craved human companionship enough to return to hear the moans and groans of a life too hard, and spent a few hours in the company of people he loosely considered his friends, and who knew him well enough to know that if they ever _really_ needed his help that he would lend it, and that he would listen if they did not need aid, but merely fancied they did. They were loyal, and less prone to nonsense than the rest of the villagers, and so he sought out their company from time to time, and them his. 

His dark brown hair swung forward into his eyes, and he paused in his work to brush it back before returning to his grimy cloth, only to halt again when the door burst open. He turned, of half a mind to grab the sword that rested just behind the counter, and froze. Surprised. Then he frowned and went back to work. 

"Jermy, what are you thinking? We're closed, you'll not get no ale from me." 

The light-haired young man that entered shook his head, red-blonde hair swinging into his eyes. "Naw, Abyl. I ain't looking for that," Jermy denied, looking put-out. "I've just heard word from some of Siirl's boys--" 

"Siirl's boys? What are you doing talking to them? I've told you they're no good," the dark-haired man asked with a frown, continuing stubbornly in his work. 

"--that they're planning on killing two men." 

Abyl's head snapped up. _Killing_ two men did he say? Siirl was harsh, but the lad had not thought the man cruel. "Why's he planning on killing anybody?" 

Jermy shrugged helpless, his expression saying he did not understand either. "Dunno rightly, but word has it another group is trying to catch them or something and he's doing it to spite them." 

Abyl frowned. There were times when he missed his childhood home in Gondor, and this was swiftly becoming one of them. "Who are these men? The one's who are to be killed?" 

Again, the boy shrugged. "No one knows." He paused for a moment, then continued, "Well, someone does, I'm sure, but no one 'round here knows. All's told is they're traveling from the west. Troublemakers, 'parently." 

"And who says that?" asked the dark-haired boy doubtfully. Again the other one shrugged. "Well, never you mind. And stay out of it! Easiest way to end up dead is to get in the middle of another man's fight." 

"But, Abyl--" 

"No, Jermy. Siirl's not usually one to be so drastic, but if that's changed, the last thing you or I want to do is get in the middle of it." Eyes as dark as his hair stared into green ones. "You hear? Strangers are dangerous. Let other's deal with them." 

"But what if they aren't bad?" 

"What if they aren't," Abyl agreed, finishing with that table before moving to another. "But what if they are? And what if by getting in the middle, you wind up dead?" 

Green eyes shone brightly in a suddenly pale face, the red in the boy's hair caught by the torch light that dimly illuminated the bar, and Jermy suddenly looked much younger than he was. Then he walked forward and leaned against the back of one of the chairs. "But Abe? What about their friends? Their family?" 

Abyl directed a scorching glare in his friend's direction, irrationally angered by the lad's insistence in pursuing this. "What about them? Trouble-making strangers don't have family. And even if they did, you'd never have cause to meet them so it doesn't matter. Now go to sleep." 

Jermy stepped back, shocked by his friend's harsh words. He stared at the fiery brown eyes a moment, wondering what he had said, wondering why Abyl was so angry, but too scared by this strange twist to even consider opening his mouth and voicing the thoughts, unnerved by the fire that seemed to leap and jump at him from a face he considered friendly. Abyl had never hit him before, but he was not keen on making it start now. Mumbling a quick assent and good-night mixed in one, Jermy turned. He was gone as quickly as he had come. 

Abyl sighed. Idly, he flipped the cloth beneath his hand, refolding it as he rubbed at his face. Strangers were coming and the town was worked up by it. Just perfect. Not enough went wrong in this forsaken town as it was, huh. Well, two strangers more or less in a world of danger was hardly a concern of his. It was not like their lives were in any way twined with his. He would never even know they were gone when they died. 

With a thunderous scowl, he continued his work, doing his best to forget the words of his friend, all the while cursing Jermy and his curiosity and his inability to keep his mouth shut. Some things were just better off not known. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

Red Tigress: If it wasn't bad, does that make it good? *g* I've come to the conclusion that filler chapters aren't so bad if they add something to the characters that are being dealt with, maybe something emotion or grant some deeper insight into the character. I don't know that I did that (it certainly wasn't on my mind when I was writing, nor rewriting) but I should hope I accomplished something along those lines, even if it was minuscule. And posting schedules are for my own mental health. I like and loathe routines forcibly, but absolutely can't abide changes I didn't know about without growling a lot and griping even more. Lol. Ooh, the woods. Hehe. You like? *raises eyebrows expectantly* 

Grumpy: lol. Prodding only works if I'm in a mood to be prodded. I had been looking for that prod for days and was just too tired to provide it on my own. *rolls eyes at self* Sometimes I'm hopelessly pathetic. Anyway, whatever I do with Harry Potter, I can guarantee I won't drop this story. It will be finished. *glares fiercely at the stubbornly silent muses* I can't get the ending to write, can't pick up in the middle of the fight scene where I unintentinally stopped, but I will finish it. I'll likely be out of school by the time it happens, but I will do it. Can't do anything 'bout the cliffies, sorry. Lol. Check! Tell me what you find! Lol. 

Rangergirl: Don't worry about not reviewing *forcefully pushes away the little twinge that says otherwise* Lord knows I don't always review like I'm supposed to. In fact, I think I'm three chapters behind Nili's--um, can't remember the title, but I'm likely behind by three chapters now. Never mind reviewing them, I haven't even read them. It seems I'm doomed not to get perfect reviewership anytime soon. *g* I understand the time thing, no matter how much the childish part of my mind wants to deny it! Aragorn worry, Legolas comfort? Truly? I switched it? *sigh* Why do I not notice these things? *looks disgruntled for a moment* Ah, well: strory served. Hehe. *grins gleefully* 

Sarah: *looks positively terrified* Don't say that! Don't breathe another word about me going on a hiatus! The horrors it would do! *gasps* I might actually do it, and then you wouldn't get the story at all! No, don't offer me a way out. I couldn't bear it. *stares with wide eyes, then slowly relaxes into a smile* But thanks for understanding and taking the time to offer a solution. Don't think I haven't considered it, I just know myself too well. If I stop now, this story will never get fnished. End of story. Thanks, again, though. 

Iawen Londea: *smiles* I always know the new ones because I have to check how to spell the names three times to make sure I get them write. Lol. I'm glad you like it! And I'm glad you decided to let me know. Nothing's better than knowing my work is enjoyed. Nothing. Not even chocolate. *g* Enjoy. 

Nerfenherder: Thank you! It's good to be back. *g* Hehe. Ah, well, not really _hanging_, per se. I'm just sadistic enough to not want to let you know everything all at once and to create as many incentives to keep reading as possible. The mark of a goodstoryteller, I'm told. Something to do with suspense. *grins brightly, ruining the cluless look* lol. Your prod has been answered. *bows out* 

Tychen: lol. Oh, yes, very appealing. Especially if--*cuts off abruptly* Never mind. *g* I'm not sure how good Legolas is as a deterent against trouble. He finds his fair share of it, after all, but it's definitely better with him there. The twins...well, I'll not go into the twins just yet. Wouldn't want to accidentally spill any secrets. *g* hehe. 

NaughtyNat: There's a Lion King 3? *blinks stupidly* I was only aware of LK one and a half. Hm, well, there are a few that get a good number of reviews. 2 thousand something was the most I've seen, and that doesn't happen often--but I never _write_ the stories for the reviews. I _post _them for the reviews. Important difference. *g* lol. No deviation at all? Wow. Among seven reviewers, that's an accomplishment. The probablity of that actually happening is slim. . . . *g* lol. Ah, Siri and Remmie and Jamie if I can manage it. It's not cooperating, though, and I haven't pursued it. I have this awful habit of getting nothing done when I have a lot to get done. Highly discouraging. Lol. *claps* You noticed. Yay! It took me a minute and three rereadings to figure out what you noticed, but you noticed. I'd forgotten. *grins sheepishly* It's that not able to remember my own chapters thing. Honest. Hm, he was rather dense, wasn't he? I think I'd look, too. Just to make sure the person telling me there was a pink elephant was crazy. *g* lol. Lmao. Oh, my. *makes a face and retreats from the dog, pulling hands up out of reach* Ew. Doggie slobber. Yuck. I'll post. I'll post. *g* Sheesh. No need to send the dog. Lol. 


	10. Morning

Hey! Did you miss me? 

First things first: there's a line spoken by Aragorn somewhere about the 8th page that is not mine. It belongs to Tolkien and is spoken by Aragorn in The Two Towers just outside Fangorn forest. Now, I know my disclaimer back on the first page of the first chapter states that all recognizable stuff is Tolkien's, ect. But I felt, since it's now direct plagarism, that I might as well point it out with specific credit. 

While I'm at it, I might as well inform you there's a part spoken somewhere near that (after it, but near it) that simply smacks of Shakespere. In fact, I'm positive parts of it can be found in something he wrote, but I did not intentionally steal. When I wrote this chapter we were reading Othello, and some of the real world melts into the fantasy world when I write. As much as I hate poetry, the cutesy rhyming bits still strike me. Anyway, back to other more normal stuff. *g* 

I'd really, really like to get to the point where I don't have to say "I meant to do this, _but_." Is it getting on your nerves as much as it's getting on mine? Hm. Well, I'm going to say it at least one more time. I meant to post this Thursday, but the idea of Sunday somehow got stuck in my head and wouldn't let go. I was under the Imperious Curse. Swear. Hehe. Oh, what else? Right, I have to inform you that I'm not particularly satisfied with the way this chapter ends, but seeing as I'm already rewritting chapter 11 (which was supposed to be chapter 10 and I simply switched them--they make more sense in this order, I swear) I didn't feel like rewritting it as well. 

*frowns slightly while trying to remember what else she wanted to say* I hate it when I have all these ideas and things I want to say, and can't remember them when it comes time to say them. It's like they're scared or something. I hope you all like lots of characters. I realized as I reached the late chapters that what I had originally intended to be a simple story had turned into a monster with a dizzying host of characters. Most of them haven't even been introduced yet. Okay, enough of the pointless conver--monologue. I'll just let you read it and tell me what you think. Kay? 

Responses are at the bottom, as per custom. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to review! I live and die by your reviews. Honest. *clasps hands behind back and backs out of the room with a fixed smile on face* 

*door closes*****

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**Chapter 10**

The wind whistled high in the trees, a lonely keening that spoke of ages past when elves had been found under the boughs of the trees, or even men, and songs and laughter were caught high by such breezes as this one, and then it went still. The momentary lamentation silenced in the face of the rising sun and the start of a new day, the first glow of which Legolas could see through the trees where he sat, braced against one arm on the ground, opposite leg pulled close with his free arm draped over the knee. It was nearly time to wake Aragorn, but he preferred to give the man a little more time to sleep. 

The night had passed uneventfully, not so much as a squirrel wandering anywhere near their camp to threaten their solitude, which is not to say a small animal wandering near would have been remiss. The elf would have appreciated less than perfect silence with aught but the wind for company, proof that nature was yet natural. Yes for all that, the trees had whispered no unease, no hint of danger, and the elf prince had been free to wander in his thoughts while Aragorn wandered in his dreams, if dream he did. 

As much as he was able to, he directed his musings away from the twins, preferring even to consider the state of the evil that was slowly overtaking his home to the uncertainty of their fate, even as it was that very uncertainty that kept drawing his thoughts and by which he told himself it did no good so that he might turn his thoughts away. 

Not that the concerns he turned to were better. When he was not worrying after Elladan and Elrohir, he often turned his musing to Aragorn, except that "musings" made his thoughts sound peaceful, or at least calm. In reality, whenever he recalled how close he had come to losing his friend just hours before, so soon on the heels of the last near-catastrope, that same initial panic that had frozen him to the spot fell over him and he had to fight himself to remain where he was, to sit a few feet away and not check that Aragorn yet breathed, that his pulse beat strong and steady. For a time, he would even succeed. Then the human would stir restlessly in his sleep or shift away from the warmth of his coverings, and concern would have the elf at the ranger's side before he even had the chance to think the action. 

In retrospect, it was likely well Aragorn had slept through it all. Legolas could just see the frustrated glares the ranger would send his way for his "mothering" and hear the pointed complaints. If the ranger knew of his actions, he would likely never be able to put the human off again, forever to be reminded of this incident in situations hereafter, and that would never do. _Not, _Legolas thought, _that I have all that much success putting him off now._

A part of him did not want to be put off, he knew, glad of the love the doting showed, while another part--the larger part--objected to the helplessness such implied with heated vehemence. Aragorn was always the first to insist he was not helpless, but Legolas' pride balked at the idea of letting the other do what he was more than capable of doing himself just as surely as the ranger's did. Perhaps even more so. 

_"Aside from what the servants do, you mean,"_ a voice laughed in his head, the remembered words of his friend surfacing from another time when he had been afraid to lose his friend, though it was not the man's body that was truly in jeopardy. It had been a lighthearted jest in a situation with too little cause for gaiety and had gone a long ways toward reassuring him that his friend remained. It had given him a means to trust, to hope. 

A sad smile crossed his lips, then Legolas rose. He moved over by Aragorn and checked that the cloaks were still securely around him, that there were no holes unfriendly air could pass through to dissipate the warmth trapped within. He was halfway through and just pulling the cloak closer to his friend's neck when he realized he was doing it, and froze. But there was nothing wrong with looking after a friend's well-being, was there? And if the situation were reversed (impossible, but what if), then Aragorn would do the same for him, right? Right. For that, there could be no question. With an irritated little shake of his head, he completed the motion and sat back on his heels. 

Blue eyes studied the man before him, peaceful now in sleep. Before they could find the twins, they had to decide where to go. To go anywhere, a couple of arrangements needed to be made. That would require a face-off with Aragorn, he was sure, and for that it would be best if he were rested. Stubborn humans, from experience, were less obstinate and more inclined to listen to reason when they were not sleepy. Food, too, improved their dispositions, and Legolas had a suspicion he would need all the help he could get. 

On that thought, he moved to prepare breakfast. Something hot would likely not go remiss, so he put water on to boil. Tea would be nice--he had a feeling Aragorn would appreciate actually being awake this time--and he could reheat yesterday's leftover stew. Then he could face the ranger. He went about his task quietly, his expression solemn as he focused on his task with single-minded intensity. 

"Who died?" a quiet voice rasped to his left. 

Legolas' head came up with a start and he looked to find a pair of alert silver eyes watching him from beneath hooded lids. Surprise combined with his thoughts let irrational anger fill him and he glared, snapping, "It's not funny! Don't do that!" not even sure what he was talking about. Ashamed, he turned away immediately and tried to bury himself in his task. That had been entirely uncalled for, but the young man's words crept too close to his uncomfortable musings. The way things were going--No, he would not think that. 

Focusing on stirring the stew in between steeping the tea, he managed to calm his breathing (which had accelerated with his heartbeat) and his emotions. He heard shifting and glanced at Aragorn out of the corner of his eye. The young man was watching him with concern and that was the last thing he wanted. They already had enough concern between the two of them to last a dozen lifetimes, and Legolas was beginning to doubt they would ever be rid of it. He murmured, "I'm sorry." 

Aragorn shook his head fractionally, as if denying it would wipe the words away. "What's wrong, Legolas?" 

_There_ was a loaded question, and his brows went up. "What _isn't_ wrong?" he countered. 

A marginal smile was the answer and the ranger tilted his head, drawing the cloak around his shoulders tight once more. "Start small," he advised. 

Legolas sighed and cast about for one of the smaller concerns; he would need to talk about them anyway. "Your clothes are yet damp, and I doubt the dew has helped." 

"They'll dry," he dismissed carelessly. 

"You'll be cold." 

"Only until they dry." 

The elf prince could not help but glare at his companion who stared back evenly. "You don't have any shoes." 

Aragorn opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "A minor difficulty." 

"You should wear mine." 

"Your feet are too small." 

"They're flexible." 

"Your feet?" the ranger frowned, looking down at the elf's feet with a sparkle in his eyes even as he looked bewildered. "No more so than mine." 

"My shoes, human," Legolas growled, inwardly chuckling. How the man had managed to keep a straight face while saying that, he would never know. 

"Good for them." 

The elf pursed his lips a moment in irritation, then continued, returning to the original thought. "You can wear them." 

"They're too small." 

"They stretch." 

"Not _that_ much!" Aragorn exclaimed. 

Legolas looked at the man incredulously. "Your feet are not that much bigger than mine!" 

"Oh," Aragorn said. "Okay." 

Legolas blinked. For a moment he thought he stood before a child of perhaps five, then the image vanished and he was left with his friend, who watched him with something like expectation in his eyes that prompted him to continue. The problem was that had been a whole lot easier than he had expected it to be, if it was over, and he was wary of accepting such an easy defeat. Aragorn never gave in that easily. For the moment, however, he would leave it be. "We don't know where to go." 

"Caivern." 

"Caivern?" That was a switch. He had thought the ranger was not sure where to go. Why Caivern? 

The ranger nodded. "It's a small town to the west of the South Road on the borders of Rohan, past them really, roughly a hundred miles from the Greyflood, that claims the protection of the Horselords." 

"But that must be nearly a hundred leagues from here," Legolas protested, surprised, though it was more than just the distance that bothered him. There was the mention of another river (namely that they would have to pass it), the fact that it was a human town, and the one point of contention that he was willing to make to his human friend: "That takes us far from the Havens." 

Aragorn sighed heavily and dropped his head. Legolas opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, but his friend never gave him the chance. "I know," the man agreed heavily, "but we cannot return to Rivendell as that would take even longer. That, and I'm not sure Ada would let us leave again. And we cannot simply continue on as we are. We are woefully short on supplies and I, at least, need boots." A smile ghosted across his face. "Caivern is the easier town to travel to from here, the terrain--if not friendly is at least not treacherous or hostile. And because it's a Rohirrim town, I'm reasonably sure they won't try to kill us because you're an elf. They remember the aid of the firstborn from the tales of the Battle of Dagorlad in the Last Alliance. We should be well." 

"But we could not be," Legolas observed warily, not entirely pleased that Aragorn had seen his concern over approaching a human town. _Of course, it could be that he feels the same apprehension_, the elf observed fairly. _After all, he's been present when things came apart._ But that always led to the realization that if the human was concerned, it was because of him. That thought stung his pride almost as much as the original thought, though not as much as if it had been anyone other than Aragorn. 

"The possibility is always there." 

The elf considered that, then nodded slowly. It was true enough, and he trusted the man's judgment. He looked up into silver eyes curiously. "What changed between last night and this morning?" 

Aragorn stared at him helplessly, something in him seeming to crumble, his silver eyes as lost as he had ever seen them, a look that surprised him as the human had seemed so certain about their course. "I do not think we will find what we seek at the Havens," he admitted after a moment, voice soft and pained. "I _know_ we will find no answers on those shores. They are lost. I don't _know_ where to look for them. I don't know." He shook his head hopelessly, tears sparkling in his eyes. "What do we do, Legolas?" 

Imploring eyes latched onto him, and Legolas could not move, could not look away. What could they do? The twins were lost--whether in trouble or not, with no way to find them, and both elf and ranger had lost their trail, apparently. The same storm that had washed them down the river had presumably washed away any tracks they may have found. What was left? He had no idea. But looking into the man's eyes, he found he could not say that. His mind raced for something to answer the question that might erase the despair that floated behind his friend's fear. What to do? Perhaps. . . . 

"What we _can_ do," he said firmly. "All we can do is what we can." 

Legolas watched as the words floated between them and seemed to funnel into the being before him, turned and twisted, examined, and finally seemed to sink in. Slowly, Aragorn nodded. 

"Caivern, then?" the elf prince asked, arching an eyebrow. 

"Caivern" the ranger confirmed, hopelessness shifting to resolve with the set of his face. His lips pressed together and his eyes darkened. It was a welcome change to Legolas' eyes, but he would prefer happiness--which could only be gained with the twins' safety. 

Footsteps from the southeast broke the stillness that had settled between them and both whirled, Legolas bringing his bow to bear as Aragorn scrambled for his sword, on his feet but seconds after the elf prince, a feat which surprised him even as he knew his friend's skill. Both stood ready for whatever would appear. Neither expected what they found. 

An old man appeared from behind a stand of trees, shuffling along quietly with his head down, something held lightly in his hands. His steps were small, seeming more a product of habit than anything else, and his clothes were long and brushed across the ground as he walked. Long white hair swayed with his movements, and a scraggly beard mingled with the front parts, making it difficult to tell one from the other. Elf and ranger exchanged a confused glance as the man continued, seemingly unaware of their presence. 

Aragorn shrugged, seeming to say "we've come this far," then stepped forward slightly, and called, "Father, what can we do for you? Come and be warm by the fire, if you are cold." 

The man's head came up, swiveling around towards the sound of his voice, and they saw his eyes, dark brown even as dark as the bark of the trees, yet mixed with cloudy white. Those orbs drifted over the pair yet focused on neither, coming to rest somewhere past Legolas' left shoulder between him and Aragorn. A smile, a thin twist of lips, and he shuffled forward another couple of steps. "Ho, there, young one. Kind, you are, to an old man with aching bones." 

"Can we get you anything? Would you like some tea?" Legolas asked. 

Aragorn moved forward and helped the man to the fire, before settling him down comfortably beside it. He moved to stand, and found his arm clasped tightly in frail-looking hands, halted before he could move. "You seek something of high value," the man rasped, his head tilted back as if trying to see the human's face. 

Aragorn pulled back slowly. "I seek my brothers," he agreed, not removing his gaze from the old man. 

The old man nodded sagely. "Tea would be brilliant." His voice rasped as from long use, but the elf fancied it was just as likely from under-use if the beggar lived out here by himself. 

Aragorn blinked and looked at Legolas, who shrugged and turned to get a cup of tea before offering it to the old man who was smiling vaguely at the trees, like he was seeing or looking at something only he could see. The elf placed the mug in the old man's hands and made sure his grip was true before letting go. 

"Not many pass through this 'ere part. Moved far away, they 'ave, to better cities; abandoned the trees, the grass. . . . And not just the people, neither." 

"But people do pass this way?" Aragorn asked, intent. It was curious to see the human so focused on a bit of information that seemed so inconsequential, but then he rarely had dealing with these parts. He supposed there was a reason the ranger found this information to be of value. A little voice he could not understand was whispering in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside and focused on the old man even as he maintained watch over the surrounding area. 

"Aye, people pass," the old man agreed wistfully. "Mostly in spring when life is new and the weather fine. Then, they feel like travelin' and whole families sometimes make their way west and return as the weather changes. Some never return. Fewer pass now that darkness has returned." 

"Do they ever pass in the fall or winter?" 

"Some. Few; so few. Those come with wagons that clatter over the ground or on horses. No children with them, few women. Metals follows them, swords. Rough voices, they have, very rough. Brutal. Best to stay away from them, yes. Ivan stay away from them." 

Legolas moved over to sit beside him. He frowned as his mind caught on the word "Ivan," but thought that might have been his name. What this man said, though, had the potential to be important. "Has anyone passed through recently?" 

"Hm. None you want to find, me thinks." He chuckled lightly, ending on a light, nearly airy cough that jerked his shoulders. 

"Perhaps," Aragorn answered, frowning slightly in concern. 

Some in his voice caught the man's attention for he cocked his head towards the ranger, then old man sat back and looked up into the sky, his white eyes taking in nothing around him, and his hand idly stroked the length of his beard. "Many footsteps, I heard, passing southeast. Steps of horses." He took a sip of tea. "Fifteen, maybe less or more. Difficult to tell when they travel in a close group. Kept real quiet, they did. And quick. Passed near on two weeks ago, they did. Came up maybe two weeks 'fore that. Quick, quick. Then again, they might have been different groups. Came up with a wagon, left without one. Difficult to say." 

The man's eyes drifted closed, and a contented smile quirked his lips. The whisper at the back of the elf's mind became clearer and Legolas wondered if Aragorn was, perhaps, thinking the same as him: that maybe they had found the ones they wanted by accident. There was no way to know for sure unless they could ask if there had been elves in the company, yet would an old man who could not see know? He did not think so. It was a slim lead by any reckoning, yet it _was_ a lead. The only one they had so far. He glanced at the ranger, and noticed a gleam in his silver eyes, one that was quite familiar. 

"Strange things, one sees, if one knows how to look," the old man mused, drawing their attention back to his wizened features. "Strange and wondrous things. . . ." He looked to Aragorn, nearly managing to catch the ranger's eyes. "Did you take a trip in the water, young one?" 

"Aye," the human answered, sounding cautious, but Legolas could see he was thrown by the question. 

Ivan held out his hands with the dark cloth clutched loosely in them, the thin appendages trembling slightly. "Strange things," he repeated. "Wondered what happened to the body who claimed this. Yes, I did. Bad time to lose something so important, me thinks." 

With a slight frown, the man accepted it from him and held it before his eyes, studying the material with sudden surprise. Folds of the thick fabric were still quite damp, yet there was no mistaking the leather overcoat. Legolas' own eyes widened upon realization. "Thank you, father," Aragorn said. "I had thought this lost." 

"Mm," the old man mused. "In the river, yes. Great, powerful force. The strength to give, the power to take away, and no one to tell her how to move or when. It follows its own path, for better or worse. Always makes it where it wants to go. No man can tell 'er 'no.'" He chuckled softly, as if at some inner joke. "By the water you live, and by the water you die, yes?" 

"I do not know of what you speak," Aragorn admitted, his eyes pinched together in a mixture of perplexity and concentration. 

"You will, young one. You will. Respect the water, and respect is returned. Claim and claim back, give and take. It's a dance, ye'see?" 

Legolas watched as his friend puzzled that out, or tried to, and frowned as his own mind tried to fathom what the old man was driving at. As much as elves love riddles, though, he felt the last thing they needed what yet another one to add to the one they had. There were other things that needed to be done, and if the company this man spoke of was indeed what they sought, two weeks was time aplenty for the twins to meet with an awful fate. Aragorn, though, seemed to have forgotten--at least for the moment--his haste. Ivan, however, did not seem inclined to linger anymore than he. 

Suddenly, he struggled to his feet. "Younger feet have need of quicker paths while elders ponder age old riddles of days gone by," he said with a groan as he straightened. Legolas was forcibly reminded of the wizard, Gandalf, as he watched. That one, too, spoke in riddles, riddles he already seemed to know the answer to. "Away be the task that calls you yonder." Then he took Aragorn's elbow in his grasp and leaned closer to the ranger, lowering his voice. "But take heed ye of noble deed: fair heart hides foul deed, and foul deed fair heart. Trouble not lightly those you would claim friend, lest friend turn foe." 

Aragorn blinked, then the man released him and turned away, leaving the cup in Legolas' hands and muttering, "Fine tea, yes, fine tea," as he walked away. Neither being moved until he was well out of sight, his shuffling footsteps a dim echo to elven ears. That last was a bit much to take in. He stared after the old man, wondering if they should not take his advice and begin with him. Who was this man that wondered alone in a place long abandoned by men? 

He frowned, then turned back to his companion. "Odd to find a man so far from any village," he commented, feeling something had to be said yet not convinced he wanted to delve into the man's origins or words. 

The ranger startled, then smiled ruefully, the tinniest twitch of lips. "Aye, but there are those who prefer solitude to ceaseless toil among those less grateful or intolerant of simple differences." 

"You would know," Legolas teased, smirking. 

Aragorn glared at him. "We wander, but solitude is hardly ours." 

"Nay, my friend. Speak only for yourself, for it is no wonder you have no solitude when Orcs forever follow your steps." He laughed lightly, his mood lightening without conscious thought with the departure of the strange man. 

"Laugh it up, Elf," growled the ranger, a strange sparkle in his eye, "but do not tarry long else we miss what we seek." 

Legolas looked up at him with dismay. "Do not start talking like that old man!" 

"Then are we to eat, or are we to talk!" Aragorn cried, the man's amusement finally breaking through. 

The elf smirked. "You are to do both." When the human only started at him curiously, he reminded, "You have a story to finish." 

The man dropped back to the ground, drawing the cloaks about him while scooting closer to the fire. "I had forgotten." 

Quickly, Legolas pulled out two light bowls and dipped out the stew, handing the first to Aragorn so he could eat while he readied more tea and tended tasks. It was during his second trip to the horse then back to the fire that he caught a suspicious light in his friend's eyes. "What?" he demanded warily. 

"Oh, nothing," Aragorn replied, trying for innocent--failing miserably, but trying just the same. 

Legolas narrowed his eyes, searching the area around him, but found no cause for the man's suddenly good humor, nor any reason for the fiendish look that he had come to realize never meant anything good. Not about to trust to luck in this instance, he asked again. "What?" 

"Nothing!" Exasperation tinged Aragorn's voice, and silver eyes rolled. "Sit down, Legolas. You're hovering like a mother hen." 

The ball dropped. Everything went still, and Legolas looked at the man with new eyes, eyes that saw quite clearly. That nearly maniac sparkle hovered in the silver eyes, intensified with the reference to the "mother hen." Horrible realization swamped the elf, and he continued forward slowly before settling down heavily. "How long were you awake?" he asked intently, unconsciously copying the pose the human had held before when the man first mentioned passing people. 

Feigned surprise flashed across the man's face, and the patented "who, me?" look affixed itself to the mortal's dashing features. "Why, you know, Legolas," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

He did not believe it for a second. "How long were you pretending to be asleep?" 

Lips twitched suspiciously. "Pretending? Honestly, Legolas. I have never been able to feign sleep. Ada always sees right through it." 

That did not answer his question at all. He had a feeling he would live to regret this moment, to regret ever taking care of the mortal. It was with a strange mix of giddiness and reticence that he concluded both he and Aragorn would live through this little adventure, and Elladan and Elrohir as well, just so he could be teased mercilessly. Fate loved to torture those in her grasp. He groaned inwardly and narrowed his eyes at his nearly laughing friend, but the mortal was too wise to laugh in his face. He clenched his jaw, then forced a smile and sat next to him. 

"Your story," he prompted. 

A fair amount of the sadistic light faded, only to be replaced by a different light. "Ah, where was I?" 

"The hunting party found the Orcs." 

"Nearly done then." The ranger sipped at his stew, draining most of it as he gazed into the fire, likely gathering his thoughts. Then he looked back up. "The hunting party found me, decimated the Orcs, and returned me to Rivendell. Father was furious. At least, that's what I heard from Glorfindel that one time shortly after my eighteenth birthday when I managed to get him drunk. Quite drunk. Elladan and Elrohir may even have considered becoming Orcs, and so escape part of their father's ire. 

"He found out, and I do not know precisely how since I cannot imagine them telling him, that the twins were responsible for my little escapade into the wilderness. Had he a knife when he confronted them, they most likely would have been carved and served as the next meal. Of course, I saw none of it, nor did I hear aught of it until many weeks later. I lay peacefully in my bed for nearly a week before the light of day found me, and even that was not truly so, for I first regained the land of the living at night." 

~*~ 

He felt heavy. That, in and of itself, was not so unusual. When he would go tree-climbing with the elves, they went up high into the thin branches that would break under his weight and he was forced to watch them from a safer limb. He felt heavy then, very heavy. _This_ heavy, though, was not _that_ heavy, and he could see no elves to remind him that he was not one of them. So why did he feel heavy? Maybe if he could see. 

On that thought, he decided to open his eyes. The darkness did not lift when he tried, and he frowned. Why could he not open his eyes? They were only covered by thin pieces of flesh, but he could not budge them. Maybe they were why he felt so heavy. Perhaps he should move other things. He tried to lift his arms or lift his legs, but he could swear they were encased in stone, something that should never have happened. How had they become encased in stone? The best person to answer that was Ada. 

_Ada!_

Alarm shot through the youth, confusing the lad as he did not know why he should fear his Ada, but the adrenaline propelled him to a sitting position. He was up! For all of a second, then burning fire erupted across his back and his head exploded from the inside out with a blinding flash of light. A pained cry he had no control over escaped his lips and he simply let go, pulling away from the pain . . . and fell. 

He did not know how long he fell, but the next he knew he was no longer falling, but floating, the pain gone. He was adrift in comfort and warmth; the horrible pain was gone. After that, he did not want to try again. Suddenly, he felt a cool touch on his head, and it was a comforting touch. It drew him despite his resolution to stay put, and he felt awareness of the outside grow, heard someone sit beside him and felt the warmth of another beside him. Slowly, his eyes crept open. 

The smiling face of Lord Elrond appeared before him and the hand on his forehead moved to rest on his arm. "Welcome back, my son. You gave us quite a scare." 

"I did?" he questioned, his voice scratched as he tried to talk. His words were barely discernible, even to him, but Ada did not seem to care, though he did get a glass of water that he tipped to the youth's lips. 

"What were you thinking, Estel? Leaving Imladris so ill provisioned and without even a dagger to protect yourself." Intent blue eyes stared at him. "Tell me, child. Why did you do it?" 

The cup was pulled away and he relaxed. He felt confused and frowned. "Do you not know, Ada?" 

"I do not." 

"I wanted to prove myself," the boy murmured. "Prove that I am growing up by taking care of myself. Elladan and Elrohir--" 

"Are fools," Elrond broke in coldly, startling Estel badly with the anger he heard in those words. "Listen to me, Estel. Your brothers do not always think before they act, for all that they are supposed to be mature. There is no ritual like they told you." 

No ritual? He blinked and swallowed against his parched throat. "They lied to me?" He could not tell if he was hurt by this or not, but apparently his father could. 

The elf lord sighed and leaned forward, brushing Estel's dark locks back from his face. "To them, it was a grand prank. I do not think they meant any harm." He paused. "I do not think they thought you would abandon the safety of these borders. Regardless, I want you to promise me, Estel." He waited until the child looked at him. "Promise me that you will talk to me before going along with one the twins' schemes. I do not want to lose you so soon, nor over something so trivial." 

"I promise, Ada." The elf lord did not think him ready, did not think him able to take care of himself. He had not proven himself as he had hoped. 

Elrond smiled, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "All is well, my son. Now rest. It is yet late." 

~*~ 

"And I did," Aragorn continued. "I even adhered to bedrest for three days before insisting I was fine. The next week and a half was spent driving my family crazy." 

Legolas laughed, working with Aragorn as they cleaned up the impromptu camp. "What did you do?" 

"Why, tried everything I could think of to escape my bed," replied the man carelessly. 

"What did _they_ do?" 

"To keep me in bed?" the ranger asked with an arched brow. Legolas nodded. "Everything they could. I became quite familiar with Father's special tea." 

Legolas choked on his laughter. "He drugged you?" he demanded. 

Aragorn nodded. "Him. Elladan, Elrohir. . . ." The man smiled. "Glorfindel, even. Whoever was around when I tried to leave again forced the stuff down my throat." 

"Ai," Legolas chuckled. "No wonder you hate being drugged." 

The man flashed him a smile, then returned his attention to packing the items Legolas washed. The elf had glared at him and firmly pushed him away when he had attempted to help wash, saying he refused to fish him out of the river again. 

"But surely there is more," the elf continued after several moments of silence. "It did not end there?" 

"I cannot tell any further. If you desire more information, you might ask the twins," Aragorn said. He paused, thinking, then continued, "Though I do not think they would be willing to tell. More likely you should ask Glorfindel. I would not suggest asking Ada. The memories of Elves are long." By which he meant Elrond had not forgotten what the twins had done. Legolas resisted the urge to laugh. 

They both broke the fire, pushing sand over it to snuff out the flames and attached the now repacked bags to the saddle on Ardevui's back. Then Legolas took off his shoes and held them out. Aragorn just looked at them. "What?" 

"Put them on." 

"They're your shoes, Legolas." 

The elf resisted the urge to scream or curse, at least out loud. He had known the human had given up too easily before. "Come on, Aragorn. We can't go anywhere until you cooperate. You need to wear the shoes." He saw the stubborn glint enter the man's eyes and spoke again before he could object. "If you do not, then we will stay here and not move. I will wait until you pass out from lack of food, then I will put them on you anyway and drag you back to Rivendell so Elrond can drug you into submission--and he will. You know he will. Then I will leave without you. You know _I_ will." 

Blue eyes glared into silver. Aragorn stared at him, his face blank. He opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever he had been about to say and closed it again. Legolas wished he knew what was going through his friend's mind, if he would have to make good on his threat or not. The ranger would not want to abandon his brothers, and he was banking on that fact, that he would comply to be able to continue on. Truthfully, he did not want to abandon the twins to their fate, either, and would lament the time lost if he had to take the human home ere he could depart. Of course, the thought of Aragorn safe in Rivendell was a tempting one. The silence stretched. 

Suddenly, the human slumped. "Oh, all right." He snatched the shoes and stalked over to where his clothes were spread out before the elf could protest. 

Legolas bit his tongue as he watched the human don the damp clothing. In this cold weather it was not good for him, but he knew without a doubt it was an argument Aragorn would not allow him to win. To go into the town, Aragorn needed to be dressed, and no matter what the human thought about how the Rohirrim would receive elves, he did not want to enter Caivern alone. He breathed a soft sigh of relief when the ranger did not insist on donning his overcoat but instated wrapped the cloak he had been wearing back around his shoulders. The other, he folded carelessly and held out to his friend. 

The elf took it and fastened it about his neck. The sun had eased its way over the treetops and it was time to go. Ardevui stood eagerly at the edge of the forest, looking back at them with knowing eyes. Legolas smiled at her as he approached, then rubbed her neck and swung up on her back. Braced, he held out a hand for Aragorn. 

The ranger ignored him and walked around to Ardevui's head. "I'm sorry, dear girl," he whispered in elvish. "I know how much you dislike human riders. We'll get a different ride for me as soon as we reach the town, yes?" 

Ardevui whinnied agreeably, and the young man finally took the hand Legolas held out to him, swinging up with a laugh. The elf shook his head. "You have a way with horses, my friend. Good or ill, I cannot say, but it is definitely a way." 

Aragorn snorted. Then they were off, racing night across the lands to Caivern. 

*~*~*~*~* 

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_Review Responses:_

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__Red Tigress: lol. Those moments of confusion are always nice, aren't they. When I get confused like that, I usually blink at whatever I'm reading like that'll make it make more sense. Lol. They work? *dramatically wipes hand across forehead* What a relief. *g* I think I went a bit overboard with the story-telling though. Hope you're not tired of them yet. 

Rangergirl: *grins widely* I know, isn't it great? *looks delighted* lol. Oh, they have a ways to go before they catch up with the twins. So much can happen between there and . . . There. Hm. There's lots to look forward to though. I could almost swear I've been backlogging all the action sequences for--but you can't know for what. Gotta wait for that. Gotta hope I can eventually finish writing it. *makes a face* Hope you're not tired of flashback stories yet. 

Grumpy: *blinks* Oh, no, you've already met that person. Hehe. You'll get a name eventually. He should. I wonder why he doesn't? *tries to look innocent* Mm, I thought it was rather impressive myself. *g* 

Nerfenherder: lol. I love your response. Details. Details. *mwah* lol. Apparently, I should write some more young Estel fics. They go over rather well. Hm. *g* The twins. Yes, they felt wretched. Horrid. And we'll not go into Elrond just now. He's scary. Hehe. It's really interesting trying to picture how a person injured beyond what I've ever experienced will react to a situation I've never been in, and sometimes really difficult to remember that he's hurt. The sleepy thing was easy though--I was tired when I wrote it! Lol. I'm not the only one who reads other people's reviews? Wow. Hehe. Hm, well, I would say you could look, too, but the opportunity has kinda passed. I'm still having trouble with my muses. They shifted topics without my permission. Luckily, they can usually be persuaded to cooperate in fists and starts, so I should be all right. I hope. *g* 

NaightyNat: You weren't late. Though. . . You do have this rather odd habit of being the last to review. *fights a smirk* Oh, bravo! I might stop by to read it if I can drag myself away from HP, doing homework, revising, rewriting, and writing long enough to be interested so I can truly enjoy it. Wow, I sound busy. Lol. Yes you should; baby talk is for Bellatrix and I don't like her. Jamie, Siri, and Remmie would be alive, yep. You're not attached to Lily, though, are you? Don't expect it soon, though. I'm still trying to figure out British terms. *looks bemused* lol. Insanity. Yes, I can see insanity. Might not want to tell Aragorn or Legolas, though. You never know how they'll react. Hehe. Oh, I like the tree joke to. It was a last minute stroke of genius. Then again, my strokes of genius are never planned. . . . *g* Thanks for holding off on the dog. For now, at least. That's the shortest review I've had from you, I think. Mines longer than yours. Hehe. Sorry. Bad, bad, me. Until next post or I can be a good reader (I don't want to read it without being into it cause I won't enjoy it, good or not, that way). *g* 


	11. Camp

Ah-HA! *jumps up excitedly, then freezes before quickly sliding behind a wall* 

*peeks out hesitantly, pulling back almost immediately* 

*peeks out again when no rotten fruit flies past* Uh, hi. *waves weakly and steps out from behind the wall* I suppose you might possibly be wondering what has taken so long for this chapter. The simple answer is: I had to rewrite it. Simple. Except I couldn't make myself sit down and write it that first week to save my live. Then, that weekend, when I might have conceivably made progress, I got caught up writing a small fic with Remus, James, and Sirius (which I've decided is crap after four chapters and have abandoned at least temproarily). That next week, I actually managed to write some of it at school, terrible habit, that. But it reached a point when I couldn't get it to work anymore, and I was tired. Can't focus properly when I'm tired. Then I had to study for a Bio test and French test. Memorizing phylums, classes, and orders are a whole lot less fun than writing, but unfortunately a whole lot more important. Now, though, I've actually managed to get out all that had to happen before I could post. 

That said, I have a warning. This chapter is not as good as it could be. I know I say that a lot, but this time it's true. At least for a part of it. This chapter has been divided into three sections, and the second section is wrapped up rather more quickly than I would like, but I lack the patience to fix it, and if I don't post now, I'm not sure when I will try again. Please forgive my laziness in that regard. That whole section, originally, did not exist. 

Now, a horrible thought occurred to me while I was pondering how to get this uncooperative chapter to work. That was this: _My plot feels forced._ And it is a horrible thought, to me, at least, even if no one else feels the terror of it. So I must ask, writer to reader: dear outside observer, is my plot forced? Or is there a logical development that can account for the courses of action that have been taken? I absolutely hate stories where there is no _reason_ for the actions, and I simply cannot abide writing a story like that. So I must know. 

Back to news on this story: the next chapter must be revised. With luck, I will have it out by next weekend. Sooner, if the fates will. I will, however, be unavailable to work on it Wednesday and Thursday, so it will either be before that, or on the weekend. 

On other news: Students at Paxon are no longer able to carry water bottles around to classes. Our administration (our principle, more specifically) believes that we'll get drunk.I have been accepted into FSU (no snide remarks or I shall cease posting *glares darkly*) and now get to stress over a whole new set of issues. Third quarter is done and the home stretch is about to begin. That means Aps. Good Lord save me. 

Now, I think that's quite enough talking from me, and I'll let you get on with reading the story. I've made you wait quite long enough as it is. *g* Enjoy.****

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****Responses are at the bottom, and I shall endeavor to never make you wait so long ever again. I loved all of them, and I'm sorry the prod didn't have quite the results you were looking for. I wanted to post, honest. And so here it is.****

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**Chapter 11**

_The world is spiteful._

That was the only explanation he could come up with. It was the only one that made sense, his mind telling him that in a fair world, people who did their duty as they were supposed to would not be punished for deeds outside their control. Around him, the cold air swirled greedily, sapping warmth from human bodies it could not claim from unfeeling stone. Sand and gravel grated underfoot, warring with each other to see who would be destroyed first. He rather suspected both would outlast _him_. 

Torl had returned to camp only days ago, returned from his meeting on the lifeless plains to see to the completion of his master's plans--he wished he had not. Upon reporting his contact was late, admitting that as the reason for his tardiness, the care and control of their orcs had been delivered into his hands. Fools or lesser men might have taken that for a good thing, a sign of trust or faith in competence. He knew better. He knew much better: it was pittance for failure; it was the equivalent of sticking him on a high and narrow ledge overlooking a steep drop with falling an interminable distance as the only way down and telling him to stay put as winds threatened to pull him off. It was a way of killing him without brandishing a knife or expending effort, and if he did not die right away then something useful was accomplished--no reason he should not be useful until death closed his eyes, after all. 

A manic urge to growl reared up inside him, nearly pulling his lips from his teeth before he regained control and settled for scowling darkly at the world in general and living things foolish enough to cross his path in particular. Most were wise enough to stay out of his way, refusing him a satisfying release of temper, a temper that was steadily gaining force and could not be released on any of his subordinates, due to his pride as much as anything external. Damn. 

Not only had he had to report and take punishment for a failure not his own upon his return, he, now, also had to report a _second_ failure to his lord in less than a week. It was not his fault those foul beasts were uncouth, that those miserable brutes masquerading as sentient creatures were not to be controlled. But no, they were restless; they were bored! Oh, they wanted to have _fun_. They wanted flesh, blood! His lips curled in disgust beyond his control. _They have both now._

_"Only Orcs find contentment in eating the flesh of their own, slain by their own hand,"_ a familiar voice spoke in his mind, the observation floating forward from a conversation long past. In his mind, serious blue eyes turned to look at him. _"It is what sets us apart from them. We control our desires."_

His scowl deepened. Sometimes he regretted that. Now was one of them. What he _desired_ more than anything was to run straight back to those orcs and rip every last one of them to tiny little strips to be fed to the carrion birds. That was also what he could not do, an impulse he had to control. It was spite, he was sure of it. 

Mere hours earlier, the camp's resident orcs had staged a riot. Their rumbles of disquiet, which had persisted for weeks, had suddenly become shrieks of rage. Weapons they deemed too clean, too still, had flashed in the pitiless, cold sun. The mountains had rung and the air had hung heavy with their stench. Orcs had fallen slain along with those too foolish to stay out of their way or lacking the skill to take them down. They had been put down, brought back under control . . . but not soon enough. The casualties were too high. The costs were what he had to report. Damn them. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, glaring futilely at the tents that he could just make out against the rocks and background hint of trees. If one listened carefully, their disgusting cries could still be made out over the whispering swirl of the wind. He did not mind dying, not really; it just disgusted him that he might be forced to flee this world for _them._ He turned back--and stopped. 

Two young men held a girl between them, dragging her forward as she struggled desperately. A rag was shoved into her mouth to keep her quiet. All three froze, like deer in a bright light, upon seeing him. He could now see the girl more clearly. Her dark eyes stared into his fearfully, though because she was afraid of him or what the boys were going to do he could not say, tear tracks blatant on her dirty cheeks. He caught finger-shaped bruises on her arms where they held her, then moved his gaze to her captors. 

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?" he inquired, the slightest hint of irony detectable in his cultured tone. It covered the fury that boiled just beneath the surface quite nicely. Score one for him. 

The lads shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Undoubtedly, his presence changed their plans abysmally. "Umm. . . ." His gaze did not waver, though they seemed to have great difficulty accomplishing the same. They settled for looking past him, gazing at something about his shoulder. "Just going for a walk, milord." 

"I see." Did they honestly think he would believe that? "And the tag-along?" The girl whimpered pitifully upon his words. He suspected she would have been quite happy to have simply been forgotten. Most of the slaves were happiest with that situation. 

"She wanted to come." 

His gray eyes flickered automatically to the miserable girl who could not hide her terror. Anyone with eyes could see that statement was a lie. Not that it mattered whether she was willing or not. He refocused on the boys, furiously keeping his fury and disgust at bay and his tone even. "I'm curious who decided it mattered what she wanted." 

Somewhat cocky grins answered this and he decided he knew _exactly_ what had made this decision. Idly, indulging his dark mood, he wondered if their intelligence would be improved upon . . . _losing_ something they obviously deemed very important. One of them opened their mouth to reply, probably mistaking his first observation to mean approval. He cut them off, his tone now holding an edge. 

"I'm also curious what prompted you imagine it mattered what _you_ wanted." The smiles vanished instantly. Score two. "Last I checked, you were required to abide by the rules and follow orders; that aside from such, you were to have no contact with the slaves. Tell me: who ordered you to take this girl?" 

The spokesman's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The boy's looked nearly as panicked as the girl. How amusing. This sight nearly made up for his poor mood. Nearly. 

"A name, gentlemen," he prompted firmly, his tone nearly disapproving, well aware there was no name. It would be interesting to see if they were smart enough to own up to their folly or if they would try to shift the blame to one of their superiors. He was still in a foul enough mood to hope they tried. Idiocy such as that was fun to punish. 

Their brains, though, seemed to have kicked back in now that they were faced with a superior. "There was no order, milord." 

"You felt the need to take matters into your own hands, did you?" Really, he did not have time for this. 

"Yes, milord." 

He studied them a moment, seriously debating providing their punishment himself. Unfortunately, he had to report to his lord, and he had already been delayed. When he spoke, his tone brooked no room for argument. "Return the slave to her post. The rules stand as ordered. Report your disobedience to Nirt. She will deliver your punishment. Do it quickly. I will know if you fail in your trust again. Dismissed." 

They snapped quick salutes, bodies painfully rigid, then scampered away quickly, dragging the no longer struggling slave between them back the way they had come. Torl watched them a long moment, taking the opportunity to stuff his frustration back under the covers and shove the whole lot back in the closet at the back of his mind where no one could see, then he turned and resumed his search, reasonably sure they were suitably scared and more than ready to get this report over with. 

His gray eyes slid indifferently over the various buildings and tents sprawled over the land, the people that moved around them--some moving smooth and silently as hunters while others stalked around, footsteps heavy with power--and could not keep his gaze from drifting to the mountains and studying their facade until he came upon a dark opening in the impassive strength. A chill shuddered down his spine as he stared at it, wondering why he had had to look. No matter how long he lived near them, he would never be able to simply dismiss the darkness he knew lived within, the darkness that had provided all the materials for nightmares a child would ever need. . . . 

"Torl, sweetie. Why so down?" 

A supreme act of will was all that kept him from jumping at the intrusion, and he turned to find Nirt, a fetching female with a delightful figure to go with her alluring eyes, standing just behind him. A slightly taunting smile quirked her full lips and her eyes sparkled brightly. He was not, however, so taken with her looks as to think she truly cared one way or another how he was. She would kill him in a heartbeat if it was demanded of her with nary the flick of an eyelash. Any true Slyntari would, and she was one of the most ruthless of the batch. "Two of the babies are coming your way, my dear," he replied sweetly, ignoring her inquiry and matching her tone lilt for lilt. "Dereliction of duty; exploitation of resources not assigned them. The hoodlums had a mind to indulge their own desires. Do punish them well, my dear--doubly well if they lie." 

"Of course, sweetie." She was entirely too pleased with this new information, the knowledge that she got to play with her toys again, and sooner than expected. But then, that was why she handled punishments. No one ever forgot a punishment they survived at her hands. She smiled wickedly and continued on her way. 

Not willing to dwell on her ways, he brushed her from his mind and went back to searching the grounds, this time firmly ignoring the imposing mountain peaks at his back. The one person he needed to see was nowhere to be had. A sigh forced itself from his lips as he turned and retraced his steps to move towards his lord's tent. He would have preferred not to do this in there. 

It took entirely too little time for him to arrive before the elf's tent. Hesitating only the briefest moment (maybe his lord would send him away?), he drew a deep breath and pushed the curtain aside. It flopped closed with a wet kind of slap and left Torl alone, face-to-face with his lord. A feeble-looking desk, a chair, and a cot--all well-furnished with wools and pelts--were the only objects present. Two feet inside, he stopped and waited to be acknowledged. 

His lord did not so much as twitch to show that his arrival had been noted, but that meant nothing. The elf never twitched. His head was bowed over parchment, a quill moving gracefully over it, and his light golden hair hung perfectly, flowing easily with every movement. Torl forced himself not to fidget at the lack of attention, his feet firmly planted with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He picked a spot on the far wall and stared at it even as his mind raced with useless facts and observations. 

It was a disconcerting, nerve-wrecking habit his lord had--leaving his subordinates hanging in suspense--that his lord was quite fond of. It was a tactic that never failed to make the guilty more guilty, the nervous more nervous, the fearful downright terrified, and the serene with nothing at all to worry about anxious, which made it impossibly easy for his lord to have someone he did not like executed (not that the elf _did_ simple executions; he had more creative ways of dealing with those he did not like). Many a person had entered the tent and been dragged out, never to be seen again after angering their lord. Kelt had been the only one brave or stupid enough to comment. And now she was gone, dead or soon to be, so it mattered little. 

"I trust this is important." 

The soft words cut through the silence, easily heard, but it was a moment before his brain translated the sounds into words and gave the words meaning. "My lord," he acknowledged, inclining his head. "The Orcs started a brawl that was not easily put down. Aside from slaying forty of their own number, they also managed to kill ten of the Guard. The bloodshed calmed them somewhat, but they are still anxious for more. I fear we will not be able to keep them in check as things stand. What would you have me do, lord?" 

Piercing, chilling ice blue eyes rose to stare into his eyes and Torl stared back, Death staring at him from those cold orbs and every instinct inside him screamed to run and never look back. Somehow, he managed to look impassive despite the bitter cold that suddenly enveloped him. 

The elf looked down coolly, seeming to dismiss the information as an expected annoyance. "Very well. Remove the Orcs to the Caves and set guards at the entrances. That should placate them until we're ready to move." 

"Yes, milord," he answered immediately, hiding his surprise from expression though he was nearly positive it was seen anyway. He saluted. A slender hand waved carelessly, and the Slyntari exited as quickly as was feasible, shuddering from more than just the cold. 

_The Caves. . . ._

*~*~*~*~* 

The ground was packed firm, unyielding and holding few footprints despite the evidence that people had passed through here recently. The firepit Aragorn currently crouched before was old, only soot and ash and long cool. Two weeks, he judged, was the last time this place had seen sentience, lest they (like him) had simply passed through on their way to a different location. 

Sharp silver eyes flickered to the post he had found, the kind travelers across plains would use to tether horses not well enough trained to stay put. He studied it carefully, taking perhaps more note than was necessary. Perhaps two feet long it was made of shaped oak and boasted two inches in diameter. If it was made right, it would take more than just a good tug to remove it from the ground but not so much work as to require a lot of time. It looked innocent enough, but his instincts told him there was something wrong, something missing. 

Perhaps it was the fact that it was not needed with all the trees nearby to tether horses, placed more conveniently for the task. Perhaps it was the fact that there was so little evidence when it was obvious people had been here--recently, in the scheme of things. Really, though, what disturbed him was that despite the post's presence, there was no evidence of a horse nearby. Not a single print marred the soil save the slightest of impressions, and none of those were made by horses. 

He waited a moment longer, poised near the firepit, running the information he had (disturbingly little) over in his mind and trying not to paint a picture that did not exist. There was so much he did not know! How was he supposed to know if his worst fear and greatest hope were true? What if he did not make the right choice? What if he did? 

The ranger suddenly dropped the soil he had been sifting through his hand and stood. He brushed the dirt off and moved closer to Legolas, halting about two feet away so the elf would know he was there without interrupting his concentration. A slight shift his direction, a half glance, was the only response to his presence as Legolas listened closely to the whispers of the trees. Aragorn waited. The young man had gotten quite good at it over the years. 

He stared off into the distance, wondering if what he thought he read had any merit, or if he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. That was the Tracker's Folly, and it was easily fallen into if one was not careful. It was frustrating to only hold half the pieces. _If that_, the ranger thought to himself. He had no way to know if the camp had anything to do with his brothers, but it was a thought he could not shake. Every time he thought he was getting closer to Elladan and Elrohir, had found a clue that would lead to them, something happened to pull him further away. If only he could find some proof-positive, a direction. . . . 

"There is joy," Legolas suddenly interrupted in his quiet voice. "And sadness. The trees celebrate creatures in their presence and mourn their loss, but whether they were Human, Elf, or Ent, they do not say--or do not know. I do, however, think it was a fairly large company that passed through. Whoever they were, they are no longer in these woods, and have not been for some time." 

Aragorn nodded slowly, considering this information carefully for a moment, then felt inclined to clarify the already clear information. "Then you don't know if there were any Elves in this group?" 

Legolas seemed to understand. "No." Then the elf cocked his head and looked at the human shrewdly. The man felt the sudden strange urge to duck. "Though I can't imagine them being this happy because of a group of Men." 

The ranger pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes (mostly to hide his amusement) and growled, "Watch it, Elf." Legolas chuckled softly, but the humor faded quickly, their situation reasserting itself, and Aragorn turned back to the camp with a sigh, his sharp eyes scanning the land once more. If only he had missed something that would point them in the right direction, something he had missed earlier. . . . 

"Did you find anything?" Legolas asked quietly. Only one who knew him well would hear the anxiety in his voice. 

"Some," he grunted. "A firepit two weeks old, shallow prints worthy of the Elves in mud but definitely made by Men, and a traveling post for tying horses with no tracks around it though the horses were the only travelers to leave definite tracks." 

"A riddle," Legolas observed lightly, more to himself than the ranger. "But for the post, I would say nothing was amiss. This ground is hard as stone. Yet it could be nothing. Mayhap they dropped it as they were leaving." He paused, as if going over his words in his mind, then asked, "What do you make of it, Strider?" 

The young man did not answer immediately, still running over his thoughts and his friend's words. Slowly, he agreed, "Aye, that was my thought also. Yet it is spoken against, too. Their camp is too clean for them to be careless. They knew what they were doing. It is possible it was dropped, but would it have stuck a foot deep into such tightly packed earth without being driven in? For argument's sake, let's say they would and it would, but if they were a large group, maybe only a dozen strong, would they not have a rearguard, and would that rearguard not check that the camp was clear? 

"But the post would not have stuck so deep simply falling from a careless packing job. It's possible it was driven into the ground and then not needed, but why leave it? It's of good make and would not take long to remove. I see no signs of haste, so what made them leave it? Could they have forgotten it? But then there is the rearguard again." 

"A pretty riddle," the elf remarked wryly, trying to wrap his mind around the different possibilities. He had to admit the human was much better at this sort of thing than an elf. They were, somehow, more capable of the kind of jumps in logic required to conjure events that might have no rational cause. Things that happened in the wilderness of Middle-earth were not always clear cut, and the ordered thoughts of elves hindered such creative thinking. 

"Then," Aragorn continued, apparently not finished, "we must question why. To what purpose did they place a post that went unused. Unless it was used. What if it was left here on purpose. What if it was not used for horses, and what if we were meant to find it?" That, truly, was the thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he had found it. 

Silence drifted back into the clearing as the last hint of his voice faded away. Legolas made no immediate move to fill it, and the ranger simply stared into the distance. It was a horrible chill that crept tauntingly up the elf's spine as the implications of that resolved themselves in his mind, bursting into shocking awareness. The elf prince blinked. "What do _you_ think, my friend?" 

Again, the young man hesitated in giving a response. "I think I dare not say," he finally said. "If I said wrong. . . ." 

"What does your heart tell you?" Legolas interrupted, staring intently at the human, willing him to keep hold of his confidence. Afraid of failure, it was all too easy to get caught up in "what ifs." 

"That this was not innocent," Aragorn replied softly, every word clear in the still air. 

Then the air changed, the very earth seemed to resonate beneath them like the ringing of a low bell, a sad note that mourns the dead. The weight of their certainty settled around them, pressing their shoulders toward the ground with a force that could not be denied. Blue eyes locked with silver. 

Neither got the chance to speak. 

Suddenly, their was a crash, the whipping crash of thin limbs snapped back and released and the crackle of too dry leaves stamped under careless foot. Elf and ranger whirled to face the intruder, hands reaching for weapons even as they turned. 

Aragorn never drew his weapon. His eyes widened in surprise, his hand frozen in mid-motion. Of all the sights he had hoped to see! This was surely--but there was no rider. Whatever hope the sight of Falshov brought him, it was short-lived. Horror replaced it, a sinking dread, and the blood from his face followed it past the pit of his stomach, leaving his face pale as the white linen sheets in Rivendell. 

"Falshov," he breathed, moving forward before he even realized it. It whinnied softly as he rubbed its nose, dipping its head and nudging his shoulder. "Where is Elladan, boy?" 

Dimly, he heard Legolas step up behind him, but he trusted the elf and paid no mind to his surroundings as he studied the horse that had appeared before them. There was no sign of Elladan or Elrohir anywhere, but he had not really expected to see them--hoped with all his heart, but not expected. His hands drifted up and traced down the beast's neck, feeling the bones that were just beginning to show through the too-thin neck. His eyes followed down and back, a frown creasing his brows at the state of his adopted brother's horse. 

Dirt, layers of dust, coated the creature's sides and legs, clinging to matted fir. Red marks, cuts, some deep some shallow, some like as not from branches slapping against the thick hide, others unmistakably from swords, oozed thickly. Some were partially healed, others still bled like they were fresh. Infection made them tender and hot to the touch. His hands trembled with suppressed rage as they felt the bones of Falshov's ribs and saw his hip bones. 

Legolas called his name, and he turned his head but did not look at the elf. His eyes had just caught something more important, and he finished tracing his path down to the creature's haunches, his questing fingers lighting on a wooden shaft protruding from the abused flesh. Black fletchings tipped in red shifted as he ran his fingers across them. He knew these arrows, but his traitorous mind would not cooperate. The knowledge of who had harmed his brother's horse danced just outside his reach, tauntingly drawing him forward even as something inside him recoiled sharply, wanting to pull away. 

A presence appeared at his elbow. The elf prince leaned closer. "There's no one else near us. Falshov seems to have come alone." 

"He seems to have been alone for awhile," the ranger replied, studying the cuts again, picking out the ones made by steel. "These deliberate strokes are more than a week old. The rest were likely made crashing through the brush." He fell silent as he studied the arrow more closely, then announced, "We need to remove this arrow. It's been too long already." 

Legolas nodded and began walking back to camp. Aragorn followed, gently leading the steed to where Ardevui waited looking on anxiously. Legolas had the necessary supplies ready by the time the ranger guided him to a halt. It did not take long to start a fire, and neither talked as they worked. The area around the wound was gently cleaned, water boiled, and a dagger sterilized. The arrow was too deep to be simply pulled out. He would have to cut it out. 

With the experience of too many years, Aragorn kept his emotions locked away while he worked, forcefully halting any images of revenge against the ones who had done this. Legolas watched him solemnly from his position by Falshov's head, his hands gently holding him still as he murmured soothing words in his ear, calming him against the pain. 

The arrow came out easily, and the ranger studied the tip crossly before dropping it on the ground. He ignored it as he closed the wound then moved on to cleaning the lesser injuries. Legolas took the opportunity to study the arrow himself, but while the human had recognized it, however vaguely, the elf did not. He had never seen the design before. He frowned and twirled it idly in his hands. 

Blue eyes drifted up to lock on his friend. He could see frustration and anger hovering just beneath the surface of his friend's temperament, nearly covering the fear. "Aragorn," he called. The human did not look up, but the elf could tell he was listening. It was in the subtle shift of his shoulders. "Do you think the ones who did this have the twins?" 

Aragorn did not answer immediately. When he did, the pain shone through. "It is the only circumstance I want to consider." The others all had Elladan and Elrohir dead. At least if they had been taken there was a chance. . . . 

Legolas looked back down at the arrow. "Then perhaps we are on the right track. Do you recognize these fletchings?" 

"Yes." Silver eyes appeared, staring at the little piece of wood as if it held all the answers and could be made to tell him if he just looked long enough. Then he frowned, and returned to his work. "I should know them, but I cannot remember from where. It is important, I feel." 

"You will remember," the elf prince assured, his fingers once more tracing the fletchings. 

He found himself looking into silver eyes once more, dark from concern. "But will it be in time?" 

Legolas had no answer. He wished by the Valar that he had. 

Aragorn turned back to the injured horse and finished treating the last of his cuts. Then he gave the wounded creature food and water from their stores, taking as much care as he had when treating Hodoer. As with his care of Hodoer, it struck Legolas that the ranger cared for those at hand to soothe his worry for those beyond his reach. When the young man turned, though, he looked torn, and the elf was curious about what was going through his friend's mind. The human spoke as he packed up their supplies. "The day wanes. If these men were the ones we seek, they have a firm lead on us and the trail goes cold. We must go on." 

"And we can't take Falshov with us," Legolas finished knowingly. 

The human stared at his mournfully. "I would see him back to Rivendell, but just as we can not return for supplies, we cannot return to see him to safety. He is in no immediate danger, but it seems wrong to simply abandon him, especially injured. He is Elladan's, a gift from Lord Elrond." 

Anyone who said humans were not compassionate had never come across a human with a pet, or a young one who had stumbled upon a wounded animal in the woods and decided to nurse it back to health. That was what Aragorn reminded him of right now, a child who had found a creature wounded in the woods. There were times when he sounded so very _young_. It was easy to forget his age sometimes, and undeniably impossible at others. He smiled softly and gently replied, "Falshov knows the way home, Strider. He will be well." 

Hesitantly, the ranger nodded. But while both had been speaking of the horse, Legolas suspected it was not the gentle beast that had held the human's thoughts. Then Aragorn moved quickly, his agreement galvanizing him to action. He whispered elvish to the distraught horse and patted his neck. Easily, he swung up behind Legolas and watched as Falshov made his way through the brush towards Rivendell. Both watched until the gentle creature disappeared from sight, sounds of his passage lost in the throes of nature. Then Aragorn turned to the elf. 

"Let us go." 

*~*~*~*~* 

He was swimming. The world was dark, nothing more than shifting shadows, and sound bubbled around him in indecipherable bursts that touched his ears with great reluctance. Strange, as his ears had been particularly sharp of late. That was not what he found most curious, however, for one expected sound to move strangely underwater. Most curious was that he could breathe--as if he were not underwater at all! Yet here he was, even if he could not remember how he got here--wherever here was. 

A frown crept slowly onto his face, teasing the corners of his mouth and cautiously painting furrows upon his brow. Yes, this was quite odd. He always knew where and how he was where he was. With the world growing dark, it was unwise to travel anywhere unknowing, after all, and ada would have a fit if he knew Elrohir had so forgotten himself. Maybe Elladan would know where they were. But no matter how far he twisted, he could catch no sight of his dark-haired mirror-image. Sluggish surprise coursed through him. Where was Elladan? 

He paddled his arms, trying to turn around for another look behind him, but he could not get his arms to work. They caught and pulled, restrained behind his back. Unthinking panic shot through him. Help! He floundered, twisting, desperate, his feet proving just as encumbered as his hands. The water slowed his movements, holding him captive. He wanted out! 

Suddenly, something clamped around his arm and jerked him painfully from the dark water--to find himself standing in the dark. Hard voices, clear and sharp with command carried to his ears, and memory slammed back into him: he was trapped, with Elladan, and they were being taken somewhere (they still had not found out the location). He had a feeling they were nearing their destination, though. The thought brought him no comfort. 

After weeks of forced travel on horseback across the lands of Middle-earth (the temperature did not seem to change much, so that's what he assumed was happening), he was filthy. Unable to see, he could still feel the dirt that had accumulated on his face, coated and grimed his clothes from sleeping on the ground without a sleep-mat. His hair hung against his neck, matted and mixed with oil and dirt that only served to make him feel even dirtier, itching about his neck, creating that peculiar urge to put it up; and he could do nothing about it. His legs felt permanently bowed and occasionally ached, but most of the time he could no longer tell they were there. His lower back had taken to spasming at odd intervals--likely a result of trying to keep his balance atop a horse without being able to see where the pitfalls lay, forcing him to constantly jerk one way or the other. 

Then there were his wrists which, despite all his efforts to the contrary, had been rubbed raw, and his shoulders which ached constantly, nothing he was capable of assuaging the tight, painful burn that came from forcing them to hold the same uncomfortable position day after day. But as bad as he felt, and as much as he hoped his twin fared better, he knew otherwise. Knew, in fact, that Elladan fared worse. 

If bound hands were a painful nuisance to him, then they were agony for Elladan. Both had received a beating upon being recaptured from their escape attempt, but Elladan had taken the brunt of it--perhaps because their captors perceived the elder twin to be the leader. His bruises had been deeper and lingered longer, and his ribs had broken under the assault. For the past couple of days, Elrohir had lain awake, listening as his brother struggled to breathe, terrified that at any moment the task might prove too much and the efforts cease. Yet even the nights were nothing compared to the days. 

Elrohir clenched his jaw, building the pressure until white flashed before his eyes and his teeth felt like they would explode. His own pain was a poor outlet for the fury that burned through him, but it was all he had. It was an impotent fury. 

The hand on his own disappeared and a sharp force struck between his shoulder blades. Fire lanced up to the base of his skull and he stumbled before being grabbed and manhandled, jerked about more than necessary to keep him off-balance, to perch atop his horse. Moments later, Elladan was helped before him. They spent more time on the elder elf, and Elrohir struggled to make out what they were doing, but they were not speaking and the sounds were not helpful. He was left reeling in the darkness. 

A grunt of pain made him start forward. A hand struck the back of his head. "Be still, Elf. We'll take out anything you do on your brother." The words rang oddly, taking a moment to register as his head swam in disconcerting darkness. Indignation shot through him, tempered by the meaning of the words, and he tensed. 

Elrohir waited apprehensively, bowstring tense, for them to move away so he could ask what they had done. The younger twin just hoped it was nothing Elladan would wish to hide from him. He thought he would go crazy if Elladan kept it from him. Worry would drive him out of his mind. 

An eternity later, the sounds faded and footsteps stepped away, the familiar scratching slid or coarse riding outfits sliding alone leather harnesses telling him their captors had mounted their horses. Seconds later, they were moving. Somehow, it always felt like they started off going backwards, a curious feeling, and he had learned to concentrate on Talme in these early moments. Concentrating on the horse's movements also gave him a distraction from the train of his thoughts because no matter how much he wanted to know what was going on, he had to wait until the men who held them were suitably distracted or he would not only not learn anything, he would also cause his brother more pain. 

So he waited, listened and waited. Time slipped away, and it was with a nervous sort of impatience that he realized they were not losing interest as quickly as they normally did. In the past week, they had only paid close attention to the elven pair during the initial fifteen minutes of the journey. Then their attention would turn outward to their surroundings with periodic checks on the twins. He wondered what had changed in the night that would keep their attention still focused inward after an hour of travel and what it boded for him and Elladan. He had a feeling it could not be good. 

Elrohir turned his head, habit prompting him to try and glance at those around him. It was a wonder two weeks was not long enough to break him of it. But the action also served to fling his attention outward, away from his brother and his concern, and it was with that motion that he caught something that he should have caught earlier: the air had changed. 

It was a subtle change, something maybe only an elf would notice, but to him it was poignant. It was like a stench that had been released in a large room and slowly drifted to permeate the entire room. Yet the change had nothing to do with smell. It was more like . . . like the air was dead, unmoving. It possessed a stale quality he had never experience in the outdoors before. Uneasily, he wondered how long it had been changing before he realized it. An uncomfortable tingle of fear shot up his spine though he knew not what he feared. 

"Elrohir?" 

He jerked slightly as the hissed name drifted to his ears, belatedly realizing it was his. "Elladan?" 

"No, there's someone else sitting before you who would call your name," the elder twin replied dryly, his voice a barely-there whisper that barely reached even elven ears. "What's wrong?" 

"Wrong?" He wondered if that sounded as panicked as he imagined. "Nothing's wrong." 

A beat of silence passed. If he knew his brother at all, it was an effort to keep his temper in check. It was common knowledge among the residents of Rivendell that Elrohir was the more impulsive of the two, with Elladan being the more rational of the pair, but the elder made up for it with his temper, which burned all the hotter for that it was harder to start. "Don't lie to me, brother. What's wrong?" 

There were those who also claimed Elladan was the more intuitive of the two, and Elrohir frowned as he silently cursed every last person who had ever said that regardless that his twin's insight had nothing to do with them. "Likely it's nothing," he could not help but dismiss. 

"You want to make this more difficult." 

"I'm not the one being difficult!" he shot back. "You're the one--" 

"Elrohir, if you know something, I need to know what it is, just like you need to know what I know. That's the only hope we have of surviving this. And I felt you tense, so you can stop pretending everything's fine." 

That was that, then. He sighed. "Have you felt anything change?" 

There was another pause. "I . . . don't recall, no." 

"I didn't notice anything until just a moment before, obviously. But I reckon we've about reached our destination." 

"Yes," Elladan agreed soberly, an unsurprised note in his voice that disturbed Elrohir. He wished he could see his brother's face. "Their behavior says as much." 

That . . . hadn't occurred to him; though, looking back, he supposed it should have. Subordinates are always more precise and attentive when they are near enough their superiors that they can get into trouble for slacking. Before he could comment, though, he rocked forward, bumping into his brother, then was nearly thrown off backwards as the horse suddenly leaped. It's hooves clacked sharply against stone, a rapid tattoo that rung in his ears; he weaved slightly as the path they now took meandered before getting some manner of rhythm that allowed him to move more or less with the horse. Inwardly, he growled. _Stone. More for them to hurt us with. _

__

Then his thoughts caught up with him. Stone. Where were they? They were obviously not in a cave or he would not be able to see the sun. But, then, where? The only other stone structures that he could think of were cities, but there were no other people and the cities big enough to have stone streets were highly populated, especially during the day. 

"A mountain?" Elladan murmured from before him, sounding just as perplexed as he felt. The realization that his twin was right hit him like a bolt of lightning. Mountain. Of course. His mind whirled as he tried to figure out what mountain they might be climbing--not that knowing his location helped him all that much. He was still stuck. 

"Not a single mountain," Elrohir answered, not completely sure why he felt he needed to make the distinction. "A mountain chain." 

"Duh, brother. But where?" 

"The Ered Nimrais?" Those were the only mountains he could think of that lay to the east other than the Misty Mountains. Actually, there was one other set of mountains further east, but he did not even want to consider that they could be taken there. 

"Perhap--" 

"Shut up!" a voice snapped suddenly from just behind his ear, drowning out the rest of whatever Elladan had been going to say. A solid blow to the back of his head knocked him forward, and a white light flashed before his eyes as his head impacted with something hard. Dazed, he wavered, nearly slipping off to the left, only to be yanked back up by a sharp pull to the rope holding his arm. He hissed as the cords dug into already abused skin. He _felt_ like bashing their heads together. 

Instead, he grit his teeth together and focused on the movement of the horse, the breathing of his twin, and the rhythmic click-clack of horse hooves against rock. If he focused on anything else he was sure he would do something incredibly stupid (he classified incredibly stupid as "failing to accomplish anything while causing harm"). Lashing out at his captors, while likely to be intrinsically satisfying, would definitely do nothing but cause more harm for himself and his brother. These humans did not need another reason to visit their destructive tendencies on their elven captors. 

The path they traveled was difficult and steep, requiring the horses to strain as they climbed with burdens upon their backs. Talme had it the worst, bearing two upon his back, light though the were. Neither elf could offer much help. 

Rocks scrabbled down the incline and hooves slipped on too steep slopes, nearly following the stones that gravity defeated. More than once, Elrohir nearly fell off and had to be yanked back up by the ropes. Hisses from before him suggested a similar fate for his brother. Neither had the chance to talk, though, to assure each other that they fared well because of the attention of their guards. Any attempts to speak were cut off, warnings enhanced with the snap of a whip. 

Hours seemed to pass in a kind of haze filled with stumbling, cursing, and anger. He was too busy holding on for dear life to focus upon it, but it never left him. 

Then there was a pause, like the deep breath before the plunge, and fear hit him like a blow to the chest. His breath left him in a whoosh, leaving him gasping for breath that would not come in the thin air. A cold breeze, like a skeletal hand, wrapped around him, squeezing him tightly before moving on. 

"Valar," he heard, breathed quietly, and he could not agree more. Had he the breath, he would have said the same thing. Then they were moving again, heading down, and he had to focus on staying put again, this time leaning backwards instead of forwards. 

Somehow, this trip was shorter. Perhaps because they were going downhill; perhaps because they were finally at their destination. Perhaps it was the pain and fear that sent dread skittering down his spine which convinced him the trip was far too short. Perhaps it was simply, now that he was here, he knew this was the last place he wanted to be. He wished he could talk to Elladan, wished he could confide in his brother. 

With a last jolt, Talme was pulled to a halt, and hands suddenly appeared to pull him down. The commotion around him made it impossible to detect individual intentions, and he lost track of who was where, each step seeming a different individual and at the same time one of the same. His feet hit the ground with a sharp jolt and sand scraped under his feet, rasping against stone. His shoulders cried out, his feet threatened to give way beneath him, and his head swam, but he forced himself to move, to follow the forceful pulls under his own power, his pride balking at the idea of a human carrying him. 

Distantly, almost as an aside, he could hear his brother being led behind him, the sliding footsteps slower than his own. Relief coursed through him to know that his brother was well enough to move over his own power, and this knowledge was such that he could summon a bit of gratitude for his captors to know that they were letting him proceed at his own pace. 

Any such feelings were short-lived, though, as he noticed the commotion around him and his twin die, all sounds fading away into an eerie silence broken only by the lonely howling of the wind. 

He was pulled to a halt, and he felt the warm presence of his twin appear beside him. Elrohir had the sudden feeling that he was about to be judged, that sinking feeling that someone else was about to lay eyes upon his and decide his worthiness. That he was likely to be found lacking, a fear of his, was countermanded by the knowledge that he did not care for this person's--whoever he was--opinion. Strangely, that did not stop the fear. 

A cool voice broke into his considerations. "Yet they are not undamaged," it said, and it was only then that Elrohir realized their captors had been speaking. 

"No, my lord," one of the men answered. He thought it might have been Conyc, but it had been so long since he had heard his voice, he could not quite be sure. "They are willful and resourceful. We underestimated them and were required to take measures that would ensure it would not happen again." 

A brief silence followed, and it was the weightiest silence he had ever heard. "I see," the cool voice said again, filled with a quiet menace that promised pain. A shudder passed up his spine. "Remove the blindfolds." 

The black cloth disappeared. The first thing Elrohir noticed was the cool brush of the wind around his eyes, how hot his face had been, which only preceded the realization of how bright the sun was by a split second, the fiery orb stabbing needles heated in fire into his eyes. They watered terribly, blurring his vision, and he blinked quickly to clear his vision, trying to clear the tears and get his eyes to focus correctly. When they did, he could only stare in surprise. 

"YOU!" 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

__

__Red Tigress: *sticks tongue out* Hmph. Well, now I'm not tired either. So there. Hehe. Glad you liked. I hope this one is just as enjoyable. 

NaughtyNat: Oh, I've done that. Review days after I read the chapter, I mean. Of course, now I've gotten used to you reviewing last, so you reviewing second is a bit off-putting. *g* Well, I wrote the chapters one after another without rereading them. Then, when I go back and change something at the beginning, the rest of it changes slightly--that has nothing to do with the chapters that are crap. Good thing is that I can usually simply rewrite those with basically the same stuff in them and make them better. Lol. No, Caivern is definitely a made-up place. I don't have the patience to look any little towns Tolkien might have created, so unless its in the trilogy, I dont' know it exists. Thus, I must create them. Convincing, huh? *g* Father would be a term of respect for an elder; nothing more, nothing less. Lol. Good thing you're not attached to Lily, not that I'm having all that much writing the story. I'm currently attempting to write the prologue for the third time. *sigh* Our own version? Well, yeah, for the first one or two, at least. Then I heard they simply compromised on the terms or something. But no American (at least not that I've ever met) calls anyone a 'git' or a 'prat' or says 'blimey' or 'wotcher.' What's wotcher mean, anyway? *looks confused* Um, yeah. I can ramble when I feel like. Really, this could be longer, but I figure I should save some for later. *g* lol. 

Nefcairiel: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I think it's safe to say you will never have to wait so long for an update again. Please don't give up! *gives puppy dog eyes* 

Deana: Erm, yes. . . . Soon. . . . Hehe. 

Grumpy: lol. I can assure you very strange riddle talking man is not a bad guy. He can even be viewed as a good guy. Not that it matters, as you will never see him again. Mm, the river. Right. *looks innocent* I feel for you. Luckily, I got a picture. *g* 

Nerfenherder: hehe. I enjoyed my dialogue, too. I had to stiffle giggles while writing it. Lol. Foreshadowing? Eh, maybe symbolism? *raises eyebrows* Super extra credit points if you figure out what the symbolism is. *wide grin* Hm, well, I don't think the twins will be in any shape to tell you their story for a while. They're sort of tied up. Pun not intended. Lol. I can just see his expression! Omg! Lol. *g* Ah, gotta loathe Shakespeare. Lol. I promise not to abandon you for HP muses. They're just more talkative than my LOTR muses at the moment. Ironically, they're a lot more disagreeable, too. Nevertheless, I think I've prodded them into motion again. *g* 

Rangergirl: *looks wide eyed* Multiple times? Wow. *snorts* I guess he is. You'll just have to see what happens next, though. *g* 


	12. Know

I did it! *grins sheepishly* Okay, it _has_ taken a week, but that's all! I might even have been able to get it done sooner if I hadn't had to travel to FSU. Anyway. 

If anyone would like to know, this is my second longest chapter to date (page-wise its the longest). I'm really good at wasting time on nonessentials, did you know? The stupidest things catch my fancy, and so I started writing down word counts per chapter before I started all this rewriting. The original word count for these first 12 chapters is: 55,590. Now, the count is at 80,671 (all of this is without author notes), a difference of 25,081. That's impressive if I do say so myself. *g* I'm curious to see what the final count will be. 

Okay, on to more relevant matters. First off, there is a new language included in the lengths of this chapter. Do not go searching through any dictionaries of spanish, french, japanese, or elvish to find the translation. You will not. The language does not exist. I made it up. If you want to know what they say, ask and I may tell you. *g* Also, though the next chapter needs to be rewritten (or at least revised extensively) it will likely be another week before you get it (I'm currently dreading either having to add or take away a chapter because of all my revisions), though if you review, I might be encouraged to write faster. Stranger things have happened. The good news is that I'm not tired anymore (or I don't _think_ I am) so I should probably be more up to writing now. Gotta love spring break. 

I remember walking around thinking of all these things I meant to include up here, quite distracting, really, but now I can't think of a single thing. How odd. Oh, yes! Please forgive my sense of humor. I rediscovered it yesterday afternoon and decided to give it to the twins. Hehe. Ah, well. I cannot think of anything else. 

So. That means I'm gonna ask you to review (please reaview) and bid you enjoy this chapter (Enjoy!) then inform you that the responses are at the very bottom (response are at the bottom) and let you get on with reading my wonderful addition to this story. *g*****

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**Chapter 12**

****

****The cry had fallen from Elladan's lips, yet it was Elrohir's thought. He had never met the elf that stood before him, yet he would recognize him anywhere from his little brother's description. Furious loathing flowed through him as he looked at the being who had made Aragorn's life a living hell months ago, matching the mental image he had created with the reality that stood before him. 

Silvery-blonde hair was pulled back in the triple-braid warrior style that was familiar to the younger twin through Legolas. The rest flowed down about his shoulders, tastefully framing a rather sharp face with highly defined aristocratic features. Somehow, the sharp angles did not detract from the fairness of his looks, but simply added a dark danger that chilled one's blood. The ice blue eyes that stared out of the face, sharp, cold and unforgiving only added to the effect. But it was lost on the twins that stood before him. 

"Shirk," Elrohir growled, spitting out the name with as much fury and disgust as could possibly be shoved into a single word, rendering it nearly unidentifiable. His expression matched his voice and he did not need to look to know that Elladan's expression matched his perfectly. 

Cold eyes slid over them. If the elf was impressed with their knowledge or fury, he did not show it, the vaguely amused, tolerant smile he had worn since they first laid eyes on him still firmly in place. "Then you have heard of me," he observed indifferently. "I would have been disappointed had you not, though I rather expected the young Ranger to be too scared of his own shadow to utter a word. Pity." 

A wolfish growl snuck past his lips. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had lunged forward, completely forgetting or disregarding the fact that he was bound, with the sole thought of ripping the monster's heart out. Then he was falling, traveling the opposite direction he had intended, and his rage hazed mind could provide no answer for why he was suddenly going backwards instead of forwards. His arms held the answer his mind did not, but before that could register, he had hit the hard, unrelenting stone, the impact jolting up his spine with the force of a sledgehammer before he rocked backwards over his bound arms. Fire raced along the nearly numb appendages as they seemed to splinter under the impact, then his head snapped back and he bit down hard on his tongue, the copper taste of blood quickly filling his mouth. 

Elrohir rolled off his back and to his knees by instinct before the additional pain could register along his abused nerves, his mind too fuzzy to reliably direct his actions. Breathing hard, his eyes slightly glazed, he turned to stare at Shirk, the other still standing where he had last seen him, and felt his anger increase, common sense too far out of reach to keep it in check. Iron strong hands clamped onto his arms and dragged him back over by his brother. 

"What do you want?" Elladan ground out between clenched teeth, obviously combating his own pain. He hunched slightly as he glared, the only thing he could do to protect his gut from attack. 

"Not much," Shirk replied lightly, his manner suggesting he often watched people beaten in front of him, and neither twin had a hard time believing such was true. "Simply your cooperation." 

That admission struck Elrohir as amusing, and he chuckled darkly around the blood that pooled in his mouth, some of it dribbling past his lips to drip down his chin before he could swallow it. "You're mental. We won't give you anything." 

"I think you may change your mind when you hear what I have to say," the light-haired elf countered calmly. 

"There's nothing you can say that would change our mind," Elladan replied coldly, his eyes hard and unyielding as the stone Elrohir had just smacked his head against. 

"I thought you might say that," Shirk agreed. "And I've found words to be horribly tiring. Actions are so much more effective in persuasion." 

"There's nothing you can _do_," Elrohir challenged. There was no way this sorry excuse for an elf was going to get anything useful from him or his brother. 

That sickly sweet, superior smile reappeared on the elf's face. "I thought you might say that, as well, but no matter. You will find out how wrong you are soon enough. Until then, we'll see how much we can improve your manners. They're sorely lacking for Elf Lords, you know, but that's only to be expected when you look at your parentage." 

"Who are you to speak of _manners_," Elrohir sneered. Elladan was too busy glaring to form any coherent words. How dare this elf speak of his father that way! "Kidnapping isn't exactly considered high etiquette." 

"Oh?" Shirk questioned genially, arching an eyebrow. It irked Elrohir considerably that everything he said seemed to amuse this madman to no end. "Kidnapping, yes, I suppose that _is_ highly unsociable. But where are my manners? You've had such a long journey. Surely you must be tired." Something very much like glee sparked in his eyes. "And dirty. Let me introduce you to my hospitality." 

If Elrohir heard something threatening in those words, he had not been hearing things. Before he or his twin could comment, however, they were dragged away, further down the mountain into the lower region of the valley. Words that, from anyone else, would have been comforting, drifted down to them, a promise and a threat. "We will talk again in a few hours." 

Neither twin was anxious to return to his company. 

****

*****~*~*~*~* 

Wind rushed past his ears and the plains passed in a mottled blur of indistinct green that was, truthfully, beginning to make him ill. And it was not even the only thing, not that he was about to say a word about it. Aragorn kept his mouth clamped firmly shut to prevent any sounds slipping past that might give away more than he intended. That it had the added benefit of keeping liquids in, as well, was just a bonus. 

They had been traveling for just over three days since finding Falshov and in that time had passed beyond the reach of the trees into the more or less open reaches of the plain. The trip had been anything but easy, the lands not highly traveled, but there were several routes that looked as if they had been traveled before, and the pair had chosen one of them. The path they had taken seemed (at least to Aragorn) like the one the men mostly likely would have taken away from the camp if they had headed east (there was no reason not to track them on their way to Caivern if it could be managed, after all), yet they had so far found no further sign of the humans. It was entirely possible that the men had decided to take a different route to travel north or gone a different direction all together, and the young man was beginning to question his conclusions. A niggling little worry at the base of his stomach kept whispering, _but what if they went the other way?_

He did his best to ignore that voice, insisting they would come across something just the same if that was the case, since they had to have come _from_ the east, at least; but the truth was that it was quite possible they had headed west after breaking camp, or even north (suicidal as that would prove), and neither he nor Legolas would know it. Legolas had found no tracks leading off in any direction during his quick search right after Falshov's appearance, and neither had taken the time to make a more thorough search. Time, they had felt, was too pressing; yet now, Aragorn wished he had taken the time to be sure. He knew they had to travel east regardless of what they found, but that did not stop the worry, nor soothe his nerves. That there was nothing to do but hold on and wait did not help in the slightest--his mind or his body. 

_I am a Dúnadain, a Ranger of the North, one of the last true descendants of Numenor, and I will be damned a coward before I tell Legolas we need to stop because I feel a little uncomfortable_. Except it was more than just a little discomfort. 

His head hurt, his fingers ached, his vision blurred, and his stomach roiled. There was, admittedly, little to be done about his fingers, even his father had said so. The others could be blamed on the concussion he had conveniently forgotten to mention to Legolas still bothered him and which was aggravated by the steady _ka-thump_, _ka-thump_ of riding double of a galloping horse, elven or not. In fact, the concussion he would have been able to deal with easily, but for the fact that it was not the only thing working against him. 

The fact that he had eaten little and slept less probably did not aid his situation, but he did not fancy having a full stomach, either, what with the way his stomach kept threatening a revolt. It was taking all his concentration to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged, though he would rather distract himself, a feat that was impossible because, one, there was nothing to look at, and two, no way he could stop himself from being sick if he had to stare to the side at the quickly passing vegetation. 

The only other option for distraction (one that did not involve bothering Legolas, at least) was also out of the question. His own thoughts were hardly hospitable these days, and he had been left alone with them long enough. He already had to sleep with them, and if he had thought his nightmares would get better now that he was going after his brothers, actively moving to aid them, he was sorely mistaken. This was one time he desperately wished he was not creative, that he could not imagine what might happen to them, that he could perhaps be innocent of the dangers that plagued this world and not have to see the bloody forms of his twin brothers every time he closed his eyes. 

On top of these . . . inconveniences, he was also very cold and annoyingly stiff, both the fault of all the riding they had been doing, though the former would likely be a problem even if they were only walking. His father would have a fit if he knew of his adopted son's actions and banish the human to his room with some of his special tea close behind. That the elf lord was not here was one of the only things the ranger was thankful for. 

Aragorn knew he was just begging to get sick with this behavior, Numenorean blood or no, but he also knew there was nothing to be done about it until he found his brothers and saved them from whatever horror they had dropped themselves into; he just hoped his health would hold out long enough. 

Suddenly, Ardevui slowed her pace, drawing the human from his uncomfortable thoughts. His eyes darted around quickly, searching for what may have caused them to stop, but the land was as empty as it had been when they started, the horizon still stretching uninterrupted around them. He looked curiously at the back of Legolas' head as the horse pranced to a halt, dipping her head with a disgruntled snort before throwing it back as if she was just as tired of this arrangement as the ranger who rode on her back. The elf absently stroked her neck as he peered off to the side, eyes dancing over the ground nimbly, his brow lightly pinched in concentration. 

It was then that Aragorn noticed what sharp elven eyes had already seen: tracks. Without a word and without waiting for a comment from Legolas, he slid from his perch and wandered closer to the markings he felt he should have seen sooner, qualifying and quantifying them with the dexterity of long practice. Legolas remained where he was, simply watching his friend with the bearing of someone expecting a report from an underling. 

The young man paced further up, every discomfort forgotten as he followed the trail a few paces. Excitement coursed through him. They had found the party they were looking for! He had been right! The party they followed had traveled east and after leaving Caivern they would not have to backtrack and head in the opposite direction. That was a relief to his burdened mind, but as he further examined the prints a new thought occurred to him, and his excitement drained away with his new perspective. A frown marred his face as he turned back, bending briefly to pull away a bit of refuse to better reveal a set of prints. His eyes were dark. 

Legolas noted the frown and straightened, unconsciously preparing for trouble. "What is it? Are they the wrong tracks?" 

"No, no," Aragorn replied immediately, still gazing at the ground as he placated the elf. "They are the right tracks." That admission did not seem to set the ranger at ease, though, and his agitation confused the elf greatly, especially as this was what they had been hoping to find ever since they left the last camp. 

"Then what is it?" 

The young man did not answer immediately, but squatted and examined a track, brushing the tips of his fingers lightly around the edges. This horse had been shod differently than the others, just as he had thought. Or, to be more precise, not shod at all. Silver eyes glanced worriedly towards the horizon. Elves did not put shoes on their horses, they had no need to. "These men made no effort to cover their trail," Aragorn murmured softly. 

Legolas frowned, not quite sure if his friend was talking to him or himself, but turned the words over in his mind just the same, looking for what had so disturbed the young man. He thought he might know, but was not sure he wanted to think it. "Strider?" He called, prodding and questioning at the same time. 

The man stood and approached him, still looking at the ground. "If you had kidnapped two Elves, would you have ridden across the plains without making some effort to hide your tracks?" 

The light-haired elf glanced past the human to the signs of passage in the ground, then looked back at the man who had raised his head and met his gaze. "No. Not unless I did not think anyone would follow me." Aragorn's face darkened. "But perhaps they do not hide because they have no reason to? Hunting parties are common fare, mellon nin." 

"Human hunting parties do not travel with Elvish horses," Aragorn replied, voice and face grim. 

"You are sure there was an Elvish horse?" Legolas questioned, startled. 

The young man sighed and glanced back towards the tracks. "Am I sure? No, but why would all the horses be shod save one? I have never heard of a riddle that makes less sense the more information you find, but I cannot understand this one." The ranger rubbed a weary hand over his face, then sighed again and shook his head. More quietly, he amended, "Nay, I do not want to." 

"You think they meant for us to find the tracks?" Legolas prodded even as he studied his friend closely. The human had been more subdued than usual ever since they had come upon Elladan's steed, but he had dismissed it as guilt for leaving the wounded horse and worry for his still missing brothers. Now, though, he wondered if he had not made a mistake. The young one was too pale, and his mannerisms were beginning to fall into those the elf remembered from the few times he had seen his friend sick. He frowned pensively. 

"Or did not think anyone would follow," Aragorn finished with another sigh. Again, he rubbed at his head, this time as if he was trying to ease a headache. "In any case, we must continue on to Caivern. Mayhap luck will favor us and they will have left a note telling us where to go." 

The human chuckled, but Legolas did not. His frown deepened as the ranger swayed ever so slightly, irritation flaring through him, then reached down to help pull the ranger back up behind him. He did not, however, start going again as the human had expected, but instead twisted around to look him in the eye. "Are you well, Strider?" 

"Of course, mellon nin," Aragorn replied, blinking rapidly as if surprised. "Why do you ask?" 

Legolas arched an eyebrow at that, and it may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the human wince ever so slightly. "You do not look well," he explained evenly, looking closer. But despite that observation, the man did not quite look sick, either. His silver eyes were not glassy, nor were they over-bright, so he likely did not have a fever. In any case, he did not press the issue. He knew from experience that he would never get the man to admit he did not feel well lest he could point to some indisputable evidence (such as fever) that the human would then dispute anyway before he could even hope to get an admission of weakness. Instead, he asked another question he already knew the answer to--know, because Aragorn would never admit the truth. "Are you cold?" 

"No." 

Sometimes it was annoying to have your expectations met so flawlessly. He frowned at the human, undeservedly angry, before smoothing his expression to indifference. "Tell me, my friend," he began lightly, the slightest bite entering his tone. "Do you never tire of lying about your health?" 

He turned quickly, not waiting for nor expecting a response, and so missed the startled pain that flashed across Aragorn's face before he shifted his expression into an inscrutable mask. If Legolas had hoped to guilt a more truthful response, he had sorely misjudged. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Elrohir glared impressively at anyone brave enough to catch his eye as he and his twin were led away from Shirk. He ached; he was tired and helpless, frustrated at being both, and not even the return of his sight could appease him. It did, however, give him a new way to express his ire, little though it accomplished. 

The land they crossed was more or less bare, the few tents he could see positioned well to his left, the nearest a good fifty paces from the base of the mountains. He wondered, vaguely, what it was used for, as it was also positioned quite far from any of the others. There were no trees in the area (those waited beyond the river) but there were several rock formations that jotted into the air interspersed among the tents and recesses. 

The camp actually seemed to be settled upon a ledge that extended roughly half a mile from the mountainside before falling away again at a fairly steep angle, parts carved like large stone steps descending towards the river. The ones he worried about were the parts that looked like a light tap would send the whole of the slope tumbling almost immediately to the river. It was not a pleasant landscape. 

He glared at the person who currently guided him down the slope with a firm hand on his arm and decided that was just as well--the people were not exactly pleasant, either. 

Suddenly, he was yanked forward, firm stone removed from beneath his feet, and he felt a flash of fear flutter in his stomach, the result of his missed step, and quickly tried to regain his footing. His legs, long unused, refused to cooperate quickly enough, and his right foot caught the edge of one of the steps. His ankle buckled, holding for a split second, then gave and dumped him to the ground, the ever-present restraining hand disappearing long enough to let him fall hard on his shoulder, the bone cracking ominously in protest, before reappearing and pulling him to his feet. 

The elf ground his teeth together, fuming silently, and stared straight ahead, coarse laughter washing over him. His cheeks colored slightly, a pale red that shone angrily high on his cheekbones and his eyes glittered dangerously. He tensed, his body held stiff, and tried to convince himself that so long as he could not see their ugly faces, they did not exist. But a red haze had settled over his mind, and he needed only the slightest spark to erupt. 

"Stop it, you brainless Orcs!" Elladan seethed, his voice as dangerous hiss, momentarily forgetting he was supposed to be the sensible one of the pair. 

"Shut up!" His guard snapped, a beefy hand colliding with Elladan's jaw almost immediately. 

Elrohir planted his feet, surprising his guard who had continued walking forward. The man turned to face him and the younger twin lashed out with his foot, the only available weapon he had, and caught the fool in the knee. A strangled, high screech erupted from his mouth as the joint was bent in a direction it was never meant to go. He grabbed his knee as he fell to the ground, frozen with pain. The man who had held Elladan abandoned the elder twin and slammed his mammoth fist into the side of Elrohir's head. He stumbled, dazed, and half tripped over the fallen guard (who choked on his moan and rolled onto his side) and fell to the ground on his knees, cringing as what felt like nails scraped across the flesh. 

Elladan growled as he saw his brother go down, his surprise shifting instantly to rage. Without thought, he charged the human who had struck his brother, plowing into him and knocking the man off balance--he flew forward and crashed hard to the stone on his hands and knees, sliding a bit on the loose stone. Elladan crashed to the ground a few feet behind him, taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulder and head, more or less sparing his already cracked ribs. He lay dazed for a moment, his mind to fuzzy to listen to his commands even if his body had been willing to move. 

Elrohir pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit, moments before the big man did, and caught the dangerous sparkle in his eyes as he glared at his twin. He started towards Elladan an instant before Elrohir moved towards him. Neither made it. 

"What is the meaning of this?" 

The words cracked through the air like a whip, startling both man and elf to a halt, both automatically turning to face the new threat. Elrohir froze at the sight that greeted him, only peripherally aware that the man did the same. A dozen more men stood two dozen paces behind them on a ledge nearly six feet above them on the path. The man who had spoken, apparently one of the leaders, was staring darkly at them; Elrohir got the feeling that on anyone else it would have been a scowl. 

The man had dark hair and gray eyes and a face that would not have put him out of place amid the rangers--worn but hard with that same look of having laughed too seldom and faced too much pain. The elf would almost say he looked familiar, but that could simply be the clothes (dark brown pants and gray shirt under dark tunic with a black cloak) which he recognized from that day nearly a year ago when he and his twin had found their human brother outnumbered and battling for his life. He glared at the man, but the other was too busy glaring at the guard to notice. 

"Zirill. Explain yourself." The sharp words, soft though they were, hit hard, and Elrohir saw the guard on the ground wince; his companion did not, but the elf would have bet everything he owned that the man wanted to. 

Instead, he straightened, squaring his shoulders and directing his gaze past his superior's shoulder, his face expressionless. "We were following orders, my lord, when the prisoners got out of line. We were subduing them." 

Suddenly cool eyes studied him a moment longer before flicking carelessly to Elladan, then to the guard's companion (who had stopped moving so completely he may not have even been breathing), and finally came to rest on Elladan, who met the gaze impassively. He felt a quick mind lay behind those opaque eyes, but he gained nothing from the other's expression. 

The lord's attention returned to Zirill without warning. "They are bound," the man said, as if that simple statement explained everything the man needed to know. Elrohir exchanged a confused glance with his twin, who still looked more than a little dazed. 

"They're Elves!" Zirill exclaimed in exasperation, his tone also indicating more than what was said. Anger lurked behind the words. And fear. 

Gray eyes narrowed dangerously. "You have exceeded your bounds." 

"They--" the guard began incredulously, desperately. 

"They. Are. _Bound_," the man reiterated with forced patience. "You have exceeded your mandate. Report," he snapped, the single word as sharp as if he had just slapped his sword with a rock. It hit the guard like a slap to the face. 

Zirill stiffened, the color draining from his face, but he did not object (though Elrohir had expected him to) nor explain what had happened (which confused the elf). The dark-haired elf watched, slightly perturbed, as the man threw a quick salute and quickly walked back the way they had come, eyes forward and unwavering. No one moved or spoke as he passed, only their eyes following him. 

He had just passed the first line, when the leader spoke. "Zirill." 

The man froze. 

"Take Virgil with you." 

The guard on the ground moaned breathlessly, apparently preferring to lie forgotten in pain than whatever "report" entailed for him. Zirill, however, simply turned on his heel and immediately returned to his companion's side, quickly pulling him to his feet. Despite his obvious reluctance, Virgil helped without a word and disappeared back towards camp with one arm thrown across Zirill's shoulder to take his weight of his busted knee. They disappeared from sight quicker than the young elf would have thought possible. 

Elrohir pried his attention from their retreating guards to the solemn being before him to find hard gray eyes focused once more on him. A shiver traveled down his spine, a sense of some doom sweeping the air around him. Then the man blinked. "Kort. Jak. Escort our guests. See that they arrive before Lord Shirk in a timely manner. Appropriately." 

"Aye, sir." 

Two men stepped out of the group. They looked so much alike they could have been mistaken for twins. Their red-brown hair was the same, cut halfway down their ears and brushed aside to fall haphazardly around their eyes. Light green eyes held a touch of yellow in them that, depending on the light, seemed to turn them the color of sandstone. They were the same height and weight, and neither wore a beard but had a neat goatee instead. The only difference Elrohir could see was around the eyes and mouth, where fine lines lent greater age to the leftmost of the pair. 

The older one crossed to him and grabbed his arm, holding the appendage firmly just above the elbow. The younger continued past them to Elladan, and the younger elf watched as his brother was pulled to his feet. Though by no means gentle, Elrohir could see that the elder twin was handled with a certain amount of care. As soon as everyone was on their feet, they continued down the slope. When Elrohir glanced back, only the leader remained, but he was not watching them. He was staring out at the trees. 

A small tug, more the nudge of a friend trying to regain a companion's attention than a captor his prisoner, drew Elrohir's attention forward. He half expected to be pulled off balance again, but these men seemed more controlled than the others. When he chanced another glance back a few moments later, though, the human was gone. He looked forward. 

An odd tension hung in the air. Their new guards, Kort and Jak, did not talk, nor did they laugh or joke. They held their silence, gravity hanging about them like a shroud that precluded any horseplay or games. Their sharp eyes scanned the land around them, alert for a disturbance from their surroundings or their prisoners. These two were professional, dedicated, their adherence to duty unclouded by desire for personal satisfaction. He wondered if they were the exception or the rule. 

_Well_, Elrohir thought wryly. _Now's as good a time as any to find out more, and we've been quiet too long. Besides, for whatever reason, they seem to care what condition we're in, so it can't hurt to try._ He staunchly ignored the little voice that shrieked with laughter at that and insistently told him it _could_. A lot. 

He brushed the thought aside and quickly concluded a little conversation was in order, just to calm the nerves. The elf glanced between the two men and asked the first thing that popped into his head. "Are you brothers?" Neither man so much as glanced at him, so he continued cheerfully. "It's just that you look so much alike, you know. Twins, almost. Why, if you stood opposite each other and copied each other's movements, you could pretend you were looking in a mirror! Have you ever tried that? Me and El, here, did when we were younger. Got quite a laugh from the maidens; adorable, as it were. Many smiles, too, back when they believed we were innocent. Then we moved on to other things. Pretending to be our brother was the best. You remember, El?" he prompted, curiously glancing in his brother's direction to see how he fared. 

A small smirk graced his fair features, memories of hours of amusement brightening his eyes--along with a devious little spark that said he had caught on and agreed with Elrohir's plan. "Indeed, I do, brother. Treasure memories, they are. I still see Father's frustrated scowl, a boon to lift any elf's heart." Except most would not share that view, quite horrified with the thought of gaining the elf lord's ire. "They never could figure who was who. Sometimes, I think it's a miracle _we_ remembered." 

"If we did remember." 

"Which it's possible we didn't, what with how often we were called the other." 

"Wouldn't Ada be so surprised?" Elrohir added, glee he did not have to fake sneaking into his voice. The thought was simply too amusing to be dampened by anything so trivial as captivity. 

"And Glorfindel and Estel, too," Elladan agreed. "Can you just see their faces?" 

"Priceless," Elrohir agreed with a devilish smile. He glanced curiously at the guard holding him. "You ever to do that?" His eyes narrowed as he watched for any reaction. None came. "Try and dress and act like your twin?" 

Still nothing. "Ai, brother! Have you no sense?" Elladan finally exclaimed. "He has no twin." 

"Brother, then," he amended shortly. 

"Obviously he hasn't," Elladan said, voice long-suffering. "No one but you could ever think they would be mixed up, anyhow." 

"They could be mixed up." His tone was wounded and defensive as he glared at Elladan. 

"No, they couldn't." 

"Yes they could." 

"Couldn't." 

"Could." Elrohir grinned broadly. It felt good to argue with his twin over something so nonsensical as whether or not two people they did not know could be mistaken for twins, odd as that sounded. It went far to reliving the tension that had built up inside him over the long days of their captivity. 

"Couldn't." 

"Could." 

"Ni xitcha cor tuache?" 

Elrohir and Elladan turned to look at the younger of the pair. He was staring straight ahead, his face as expressionless as before. If the younger twin was not completely sure he had heard the young guard speak (it was unlikely he and Elladan would have the same hallucination, never mind that they were twins), he would have sworn he imagined it for there was no hint of the aggravation he had heard in the other's countenance. 

"Antar nent soir coup destache entim." 

The elves glanced at the elder, then looked to the younger. Both were staring straight ahead as if neither had spoken. Elrohir pursed his lips slightly, then demanded in slightly petulant Elvish, "What did they say?" 

Elladan met his gaze and shrugged. "Maybe they think you're fat," he replied in kind. 

His expression melted into a scowl. "But what language is that?" He persisted. 

"I don't know, brother," the elder twin replied, a bit of frustration creeping into his voice. Elrohir pursed his lips again. Whatever enjoyment he had gotten from arguing with his brother, he did not want to make him angry with him. They were all the other had right now. This was not the time. 

He sighed theatrically, as if he had just suffered a big disappointment. "So they can't pass as twins," he admitted heavily in Common, picking up where he had left off as if the only thing they had been discussing was the same argument that had been heard. "But wouldn't it be so much fun? Imagine all the pranks you could play. All the trouble you could cause. . . ." He trailed off as he glanced speculatively at the pair. Still nothing. _Valar, these two are worse than the Rangers! _he thought in exasperation, but that did not mean he was going to give up. "Though, you don't look like the kind of people who would cause trouble," he continued. "You expect people who are going to cause trouble to have this fiendish light in their eyes and a manic grin. All the better that you don't look like that, then, come to think of it. You can get away with more! I bet you pulled loads of pranks in your day." He frowned, then, a thought having just occurred to him. "Or do humans not do that?" 

Elladan snorted. "Of course humans do that!" he exclaimed. "I'm the one who hit my head, brother, not you." 

"I'm just saying. Maybe the humans we know are nothing like the humans we _don't_ know." 

"Ridiculous." How Elladan managed to sound so dismissive when he was obviously trying very hard not to burst out in laughter, Elrohir had no idea. 

"Is not." 

"Is so." 

"Not. They won't even tell us their names," Elrohir concluded triumphantly, as if that settled everything. 

His twin snorted again, dismissing his words unequivocally. "We know their names. Kort and Jak." 

"Aye, but we don't know who goes with which name. They haven't introduced themselves." 

"So ask." 

"You ask." 

"You're the one who wants to know," Elladan shot at him, shooting him a dirty look as he ended the possibility of tossing the same words back and forth. 

"You're older," he countered gamely. 

"That's right. And I'm telling _you_ to ask." The elder twin was frowning slightly, the perfect picture of a frustrated elder brother, but Elrohir could see the laughter in his eyes. They had had this conversation many times over the centuries. 

"But you're more responsible," Elrohir whined back. 

"I'm only two minutes older!" The disbelief in that exclamation was quite convincing. 

"But you're still more responsible!" 

"Fine. I'm more responsible. Now I'm _responsible_ for seeing that _you_ ask." 

Elrohir pouted, hard-pressed to keep from laughing. "Ada told you to take care of me." 

"No he did not," Elladan denied carelessly. 

"Did so." 

"No, he said, 'Watch out for your younger brother.' That did not mean you." 

"Did, too." 

"Did not." 

"Did, too." 

"Did not." 

"Did, _too_." 

"Fine!" Elladan snapped. If he had had use of his hands, he probably would have thrown them in the air. 

Elrohir blinked, but his brother did not continue. He tilted his head. "So?" 

"So what?" 

"Ask." 

"You ask." 

"No, you ask." 

"I don't want to. You ask." 

"I asked last time," Elrohir finally relented, breaking the pattern. 

"No, I did." 

"I did." 

"_I_ did!" Elladan insisted. Elrohir truly could not remember. "It was at that ball--" He never got the chance to finish. Suddenly, he was falling, and stopping it became far more important that continuing his train of thought. 

Elrohir barely had time to register his brother's swan dive before he was joining him. His mouth snapped closed as he hit the water, tensed against the impact. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the cool liquid envelope him, swallowing first his feet and knees then quickly moved up to include his face. He had vaguely expected it to hurt and was rather surprised when it did not. He even started to relax, basking in the feel of fresh water moving over his face, the light current brushing away weeks of accumulated dirt and sweat. It felt heavenly, never mind that he was still wearing his clothes. 

Then that bliss was snatched away. Fire, white hot as liquid glass, shot up his arms, permeating them with pain. They felt like they were going to fall off and he only hoped they would before they took the rest of his body with them, corrupting it and filling it with agony. Indeed, he could already feel it racing up his shoulders and down through his chest, tightening it, up through his head, jabbing burning pokers through his skull so bright lights flashed across his lids, melting his mind. His mouth opened to scream, but there was no sound, only bubbles. He tried to gasp in air to fill the void that was created, and choked. 

The younger twin coughed raggedly as he left the unconcerned embrace of the river's water, his brain barely registering the sharp slap of stone as he slammed into it nor the sandpaper scratch as he was dragged further away from the water, the rough rock conspiring to keep as much of his skin as it could. He was too busy gasping air into rebelling lungs, desperately trying to convince them it had not been his idea to breath water to worry over anything else. 

When his body finally calmed down enough to let his mind think, it was not his pain that occurred to him; it was his brother's. "Elladan!" He rasped. 

"I'm here, brother," Elladan answered immediately, his tone nearly calm around his ragged breathing. "Are you all right?" 

Elrohir nearly laughed--would have if he had had enough breath to do so. Instead, he nodded. "Some trip," he murmured in elvish, the flowing words coming easier to his lips that the Common Tongue. "Maybe we should show Estel." Except he would never hurt his little brother like that. Never. 

Elladan did not answer as they were hauled to their feet and forced to begin their walk back up the slope, the twins stumbling at nearly regular intervals. Stones that they would never have stepped on much less tripped over, skipped down the incline to roll into the river, each one's arrival announced by a soft _plunk_ that was always almost erased by the gurgle of the stream. It took most of their ascent for Elrohir to get his breath back and force his mind to work properly; physical exertion directly after injury not being conducive to a quick recovery, after all. 

Finally, though, his breathing evened out and he looked to the man holding his arms. "So. Are you Kort or Jak?" 

He never saw where the blow came from. 

Elrohir stumbled hard, blinking as lights once more burst before his eyes, flaring like some of Gandalf's fireworks, but he did not fall. By the time his vision cleared enough to look around, both Kort and Jak (or Jak and Kort) were walking serenely, any hint of who had attacked him gone as if it had never happened. His blue eyes narrowed dangerously as his previous ire came rushing back into him full force. 

Elladan shot him a warning look, his familiar eyes warning the young elf to hold his tongue and his temper and not provoke them. They told him to be patient, to wait, so Elrohir did, much though he despised backing down to these cowards. The quartet proceeded back into camp without uttering another word. 

They were led past the lone tent and guided around several other obstacles towards the mountains that lined the northern perimeter of the camp. The corral, where dozens of horses were kept, was the first thing they passed--sharp elven eyes caught no sight of Talme among their number. Then they passed more tents, and the elf thought it likely at least one of them held horse supplies though he could not be sure with the flaps pulled closed. Most of the people they passed were dressed in the same dark colors as their guards and carried weapons openly. Others wore light colored, simple, rough sewn clothes that looked filthy and the empty expressions of people who had seen their lives taken away and their futures destroyed. He shuddered as he watched a pair of young girls enter one of the tents, then turned his attention back to his surroundings. 

It was hard to know what he was looking for when each tent looked the same and every rock formation as uniform as if they had been carved that way. Even the people were hard to differentiate between, regardless of the fact that their hair ranged from pale yellow to blackest night with every shade in between and their eyes and skin color seemed to follow suit. There was also some kind of power hierarchy, but he was at a loss as to how to decide who had to take orders from whom and how they differentiated unless everyone knew everyone else, something he found unlikely. 

It was not long (though Elrohir would not have argued if someone had claimed otherwise) before they approached another tent. This one was almost the same size as the one he had first noticed and seemed to be more or less ignored by the rest of the camp. It was beige, nearly the exact shade of the rock around it, and looked like every other tent he had ever seen, save for a black stripe that ran over the entrance. He wondered what it meant. 

Without hesitating, the two men pushed the flaps aside and dragged them in, the canvas slapping closed behind them. Three sturdy wooden chairs were the only objects in the room. Two were positioned side-by-side, separated by about a pace, while the third was settled facing it about thrice that far distant. Silently, the guards led Elladan and Elrohir over to the pair of chairs and firmly placed them on them, sliding their still bound arms over the backs of the chairs. Elrohir grit his teeth to hid his wince of pain at the motion. Then the ropes that had been used as leashes were wound around the chair, ensuring they stayed put. The ropes were tied off and the guards withdrew. Neither Kort nor Jak uttered a word, nor did they look at them after their task was completed. 

Elrohir stared after them until he lost the sound of their footsteps, feeling strangely bereft at their absence. He sighed and turned to his twin. "I'm not liking this, brother." 

Elladan shot him a look that said, "duh!" but valiantly restrained himself from uttering those words or their like. He frowned. "The Slyntari have not been heard of for millennia. Why should they suddenly reappear now?" 

"Perhaps they haven't," Elrohir replied, not liking his answer any more than his twin even as he voiced it. "Most of those beings are Men. Dressed differently, one would never know they serve Sauron." He did not add that without their knowledge of their allegiance, they would never have known anyway. 

"No," Elladan agreed. "But I wonder what they want with us." 

"Then perhaps I should tell you," a voice interrupted smoothly. 

The pair looked up to find Shirk standing before them, dressed in blood red riding clothes trimmed with black. A rather expensive looking black cape hung about his shoulders and trailed down to just above his knees. Through his surprise, he managed to note Shirk had not been wearing that when they had arrived. Before, he had been wearing the same dress as the rest of his men, even if it had been better tailored. 

Elladan glared at the blonde haired elf regally. "That might be a good idea," he agreed bitingly. "Then we will know why you were destroyed when Lord Elrond comes for us." 

"Oh, he won't come for you," Shirk denied, smiling as he moved to take his own seat. "No one even knows you're gone. Funny thing about traveling the Wilds; it is so easy to be . . . delayed." 

Elrohir matched his brother's glare, every reason he had for hating this elf flying through his mind. "Our father will notice we're missing and send parties looking for us. When they have found us, you will rue the day you showed your face back in Middle-Earth." 

"I doubt that, young one, but your faith is touching." Shirk smirked. Elrohir doubted this elf had a heart to touch. "There will be no tracks to follow by the time they note your absence. Winter hits these lands hard, after all, and you know how the snows attack your home. Then, I doubt he will have much time to worry over you if he has to take care of the Ranger." 

Elrohir's stomach plummeted and his blood ran cold, but Elladan beat him to a response once again. "What have you done with him!" the elder twin hissed. "What have you done to Strider?" If looks were responsible for spontaneous combustion, Shirk would have been nothing more than a pile of ask. 

The elf simply smiled unconcernedly, relishing their reaction. "I? Why, I have done nothing. Not yet. I'll be curious to see how long that lasts, though. I wonder if he is still so defiant. Ungwale will break even the strongest men, after all. That is it's purpose." 

"If you so much as lay a finger on him. . . ." Elrohir warned darkly. 

"You'll what?" Shirk raised a mocking eyebrow at him. "You'll what, Lord Elrohir? And don't look so surprised. It's unbecoming. Of course I can tell you apart. I am not a Man, after all. But you will be in no condition to worry over the dear Ranger once I'm through with you. You may count on that." 

"What do you want?" the younger twin prompted, tired of playing games. Elladan was too furious to speak. 

"For now, information will do," Shirk replied, completely nonplused by Elladan's death glare. 

"And you think we're going to cooperate? You're insane." 

Elrohir nearly winced at the scorn in his brother's voice. Shirk, though, did not appear bothered in the least, yet it was this very nonchalance, too forced, that told him Elladan had hit a nerve. When the elf spoke, his voice was the coldest they had heard it. "Everyone breaks, my dear Elladan. Everyone. Even if you don't, you will serve my purpose. Either way, you lose. But I thought I would give you the chance to make this easier on yourselves, the chance to spare yourselves unnecessary pain. It is, of course, your right to refuse. So I ask: will you tell me what I want to know?" 

"No," Elrohir answered. 

"Never," Elladan affirmed, voice vehement. 

Shirk's pale blue eyes glittered maniacally in the dim light. Whether it was anger or excitement neither twin could say, but there was no doubt in their minds that the elf did not regret their answers. A small smile, the barest curving of lips, touched his face. "Very well, my lords," he intoned softly, ironically. "Welcome to hell." 

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_Review Responses:_

Deana: I hadn't even thought of that. . . . No, I had. Lol. Very briefly very long ago. Can't remember why I dismissed it. *looks thoughtful* I'll try. *smiles innocently* 

Red Tigress: *looks confused* I don't know what you're talking about either. Hehe. How 'bout you tell me if you figure it out? *looks hopeful* *snorts* I can safely assure you the horsie will be fine. The twins on the other hand. . . . *grins evilly* 

Alina: Never fear, I shall not hold your prior silence against you. *g* Phew, I'm glad to hear that. I had doubts about my plot even before I started writing it, but I feel better after your reassurances. And you're free to ramble about whatever you wish, I will never turn you away. Lol. Fresh viewpoints are always appreciated. Hehe. Do de-lurk more often. *g* 

Grumpy: Yay! *claps enthusiastically* It does, indeed. As for why they want the twins. . . I could have sworn I mentioned that somewhere earlier. Ah, well. You'll simply have to wait. Would you like more than one copy? 

Nerfenherder: Ah, yes, more important as it is, I'm still neglecting it in favor of posting this chapter. Oops. Lol. It is Florida State, and my defensiveness is the result of living in Florida where there are two schools competing for favoritism. You're either a seminole fan or a gator fan and we tend to go rather hard for each other's throats. Hehe. Fun, huh? I'm glad it doesn't seem forced. Em, well there is that. I was thinking of something else. Would you like to guess again or just have me tell you? Or do you not want to know at all? I can do that, as well. It's good to be terrible. Just one--or two? Thanks. 


	13. Pain

Hi! 

I'm not sure I like this chapter, but I'm willing to go with it and unwilling to even consider rewriting it (again) after spending a week on it. Most of it was actually written by Thursday, but typing it up proved tedious and time-consuming and erased whatever effects my diligence in getting it written provided. It wasn't helped at all by my rather adrupt meeting with a dump truck. *grins ruefully* Put simpler, I was in a car accident with a dump truck in my little tiny Nissan Altima. Lol. Oy. I've decided I'm even crazier than my stories make me out to be, 'cause I thought it was fun. 

There I was, driving along on the right-hand side, the dump truck on my left, going about 35. We were coming up on an intersection, and the left lane is often used by people who want to turn. One idiot who was turning didn't have his signal on, and I had sped up to try and get in front of the dump truck (I hate driving beside them). Mr. Dump Truck decided to get over. Well, I wasn't clear of him yet. He hit me about the rear driver-side tire (this is America, so that's the left for any who reverse it). Metal squealed, and I swung around, the front of his truck meeting firmly with my door. Then he continued to the right and I curved around, continuing past him, but he had one last thing to say, and his driver-side tire whacked me in the rear-driver-side door. At that point, I put on the brakes. When I came to a halt and looked around, I was facing the wrong direction, now in the left lane, mid-way through the intersection. Like I said, fun. But I was shaky for four hours, the kind you feel when you're about to start writing. Then the pain started. Pulled muscles are _not_ fun. 

Anyway, there's my major even for the week. *g* Oh, and the next chapter is going to be late. Even if I don't have to rewrite the whole thing, I'm going out of town on Wednesday and won't be back until Sunday. Even assuming I'll have the opportunity to write, I won't be able to type it up. *shrugs* Nothing I can do about it. The next one will also focus mostly on Legolas and Aragorn. It had been supposed to tack onto this one, but then the twins took up so much time and I didn't want to put them on and make the chapter quite _that_ long.****

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****Now, before I go and let you enjoy (or try to) this chapter, I have a little bit of proof that it's destiny for Aragorn to be torturd. *g* Spell-check is a lovely thing. Writer's best friend. I programmed Aragorn, Strider, Estel. . . . All the ranger's many names into so I wouldn't have to click 'skip' every time I came upon one of them. I ran it just before I started writing this little header and came upon the word "tortured's." Spell-check doesn't like it, so it gave me three options. The first two were expected. "Torture's," Torturer's." The third one caught me completely by surprise. 

"Strider's." 

Lol. He's forever in association with torture. Lmao. *sigh* Ah, well. Onto the chapter. Review responses are at the bottom. I have to go catch my breath from laughing so hard. At the risk of having forgotten something, I'm going to post now. 

Enjoy. And don't forget to review. Please? *big, hopeful puppy dog eyes*****

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**Chapter 13**

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****Elrohir sighed, shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, and let his head fall back against the stone wall he leaned against. A dull _thunk_ echoed through his head, a brief flash of light following it, flaring like the ripples from a pond, but there was no pain. Three days of confinement, it seemed, was enough to get rid of a concussion. 

Blue eyes tracked to the left, searching for and finding the stairway which was the only entrance to their prison. Light, weak and gray, was just beginning to tease the edges of the darkness, lightening the shadows that hung about them and easing his heart. Morning had come. He waited with mingled reticence and anticipation for the walls around him to be revealed in all their ugly glory. 

After their last meeting with Shirk, Elladan and Elrohir had been removed to an underground cell carved from the stone around them. Few would call the room large at eight feet by six feet, but Elrohir readily admitted it could be smaller, though not by much. Elegantly wrought shackles (suspiciously similar to elven work) were set into the flawlessly smooth stone so as to hold the captives hands just above the shoulders, something Elrohir found hurt just as much as having them bound behind his back, if only because the latter had come first with no chance for recovery. There were four sets total and he had far too good a view of them; he would much prefer to view them from a greater distance, preferably nowhere near this small room. 

The stairwell, the only other thing of note in their dim abode, was just wide enough to let two men walk abreast and rose roughly eight feet to the surface and was steep with small steps. When he had first been led down it, he had felt uncomfortably sure he was going to fall and was more than just a little surprised when he did not. A dark part of him had thoroughly expected to be "helped" by one of his captors, a little nudge to get him going; he could not remember another time when he had been so relieved to have underestimated a human, though he suspected if he let himself think about it, he could come up with quite a few that somehow involved Estel. Vaguely, he wondered if the stairs had anything to do with why the humans had not returned. 

Elrohir looked back to his right, tilting his head to better see his twin in the semi-darkness. He could just make out the gleam of light off dark eyes amid the shadowed outlines of a face and knew Elladan to be looking towards the stairs also. "Do you think they have forgotten us?" he asked. 

"I hope not," Elladan replied heavily after a moment in which he seemed to pull himself back from some dream. "I do not wish to die in a cave." 

"Estel might object to your classification, brother," he replied, his voice too solemn to carry the jest as it was meant. Their little brother seemed to find their insistence of labeling anything underground made of stone as a cave amusing, and it was, to a certain extent, when one was traveling with Legolas and free to leave the cursed darkness if one wished. Just now, however, he was feeling the strain too much to find it overly amusing. And he was worried about his brother. 

Elladan smiled at his comment, but the light failed to reach his eyes. Elves were not meant for caves or stone; they were meant for sun and moon and sky, to wander free over the earth where the wind could caress their faces and their eyes could see the stars. Hidden underground and injured, the elder twin was feeling the loss keenly, and Elrohir's heart ached for his brother, only reluctantly admitting he felt the loss, too. 

He shifted again. Damn this darkness! "What do you think they are doing?" Was this how Estel felt when he could not stay silent, asking even stupid questions just so he would get an answer? 

"Sitting just outside the entrance, grinning madly and waiting for us to scream 'mercy'." 

He shot his twin a wounded look. "El. I was being serious." 

"So was I." 

"No," Elrohir disagreed, well used to his brother's moods and tones when he was injured and feeling terrible. In fact, it was a situation he was far too used to. "You were being sarcastic." 

"The two can coincide," the elder insisted, his tone just the tiniest bit lighter. Only someone who was listening as closely as Elrohir would have noted it, though, and it was just as likely they would have thought they imagined it. Still, it was a start. 

He raised an eyebrow--just in case Elladan could see it--his expression the epitome of dignified disbelief. "Is that right?" he drawled. "That's not what you said three years ago when you ate that mushroom and I told you were about to experience a whole new world." 

"I was delirious," was the immediate reply. 

Elrohir grinned. "You said you were fine," he pointed out. 

"You're going to take the word of a person who also claimed they could fly?" Elladan shot back, sounding incredibly like their father when he was repeating a part of one of their stories back to them, a particularly ridiculous sounding part that he could not believe but was not quite willing to question. But this time it was the words, and not the tone, that caught his attention. 

Elrohir frowned slightly, studying his brother suspiciously. "You said you couldn't remember that." 

"I did?" 

"You did." 

"I don't remember." 

Elrohir was suddenly caught between the urge to hit his brother and laugh riotously; unable to do the former and unwilling to do the latter (it would admit his defeat, after all), he settled for scowling darkly. The problem with that was it let the silence return, let the darkness creep closer. He shifted again. "Okay; so, aside from sitting outside listening and waiting, what else are they doing?" 

There was finally enough light for him to see his brother completely, and he nearly grinned at the dark look Elladan shot him. "Why don't you just scream and ask them yourself?" he asked wickedly. 

He scowled again, almost growling, then forced a smile, sugary sweet, and said, "But I want you to do it." 

Elladan snorted, the sound a cross between an aborted growl and suppressed laughter. He glanced away, then looked back, a warily appraising look on his face that crumpled into something akin to despair, but Elrohir could see a teasing light in his eye that he did not understand until the other spoke. "Valar, you're even worse than Estel!" 

Fighting the urge to laugh, Elrohir frowned at him, not quite able to decide if he should feel pleased or insulted, and found himself even less sure if Estel would have been pleased, amused, or insulted had _he_ been present. He settled somewhere in the middle, just for now, and commented wryly, "You make the most interesting comments. Elladan?" he prompted, concerned, when his brother dropped his head. 

His dark-haired mirror-image looked up. His eyes, which just a moment ago had regained their sparkle, were dark and sad, and Elrohir felt his spirits dropping as well in sympathy, even without being sure of the cause. "I miss him," the elder murmured, voice so soft Elrohir nearly had to strain to hear him. 

The younger nodded. "Me, too." Every time he thought of the human, he could not help but see the thin, haunted being that had last stood before him. In his mind's eye, he saw dark circles that made dull eyes appear sunken, both standing out starkly against his pale skin. He saw the listless young man that had sat, still as a statue, every time he was left to his own devices, staring out over the beauty of Rivendell as if it did not even exist, as if he could not see it anymore, images from the past replacing the present. 

He tried to cling to the hope that he was with Legolas--that the prince would not let any ill befall him, that if anyone could help heal the human's soul it was the Mirkwood prince. Yet in this darkness, he could not help but remember how fragile men were, how easily their lives could end. He could not help but remember how many times they had nearly lost the human and how quickly everything seemed to change. It had been so long since he had last seen Estel. What if the boy had changed beyond recognition? What if he had fallen to whatever shadow had haunted his heart? They would never know. He could die and they would never know; it would be too late. 

He swallowed, the motion harder than it had been before, and shook his head to chase away the tortured thoughts. "He is strong," he whispered, not sure if he was speaking to himself or his twin. "He will be fine--_is_ fine. We will see him again." 

Elladan nodded slowly. "We will." 

Elrohir glanced at his brother sharply, something in his tone setting off alarms inside his head. Footsteps on the stairs cut off whatever else he might have said, though, and both elves went very still, so much so as to hold their breaths, and listened closely to the slightly echoing thuds that said their isolation was about to end--for better or worse. Dark eyes watched the staircase, intently, warily, the weak sun wavering as it was blocked by human bodies; they were to have more than one visitor. Dread curled through the younger elf. This could not be good. 

Elrohir's eyes narrowed as the first man came into view. He was larger than most human's the elf had seen, fat to an elf's mind but obviously in good shape. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped to the side, not entering any further into the room than necessary, and stood at attention while the rest of his companions followed, the next proving to be a woman with deep red hair and a stride like a stalking cat. Elrohir could barely see her face, but what he did see reminded him even more of a cat--one who had just caught a mouse and was looking forward to playing with it. A frown tried to pull at the corners of his lips but he fought it, doing his best to look expressionless. 

Then came the man who reminded Elrohir of a ranger, the leader from the slope. His face was as expressionless as ever, but a feeling of . . . impatience hung about him that the elf was a loss to explain or ignore; it made him tense inexplicably. He, also, stepped to the side upon entry, his cool gaze sliding down to take in the last member of their group. A flash of--_something_ lit his eyes, then vanished, concealed behind whatever blocks he used to keep others from prying into his thoughts. 

Curious, Elrohir also looked down. A youth, perhaps thirteen, emerged from the stairs and crossed to the woman, who had continued across the floor so she stood between the twins. It took a moment for Elrohir to realize it was a girl, and he could not explain why, for there was no mistaking her feminine features or slender figure, even with the formless clothes that covered her like a shroud. Her hair was drawn back simply and fell nearly to her waist, well kept and clean. He studied her as she crossed the floor to stand beside and behind the woman. Her motions were stiff, almost like she was being moved instead of the one doing the moving, and she stood perfectly still, a living statue, but it was her eyes that chilled his blood. 

They were empty. It was not the hopelessness he had seen in the others dressed in simple beige robes, nor could he find any hint of sadness or despair. In fact, he could find no hint of _any_ emotion. Any of them would have been easier to bear than this . . . blankness, which sent shivers up his spine. It was almost like she had no soul. . . . 

"I see you like the Master's slave, Elf," a coy voice purred. 

Elrohir dragged his eyes up and over to fix on the slightly smirking face of the female. He hoped he did not look as sick as he felt. He did not want to give these monsters the satisfaction. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice nearly normal. He resisted the impulse to ask the dozen other questions that suddenly shot through his mind, most of them irrelevant, the foremost being "what did you do to her?" 

"Want?" she asked, sounding surprised. Her lilting, falsely sweet voice was beginning to get on his nerves, and she had not even spoken ten words. "Why, only to share. It's good manners, after all." 

Ignoring the very strong impulse to comment on _that_, Elladan focused on her first words, finding voice to demand, "What do you want to share?" Were they not chained to cold stone, Elrohir would have believed they sat in a Council Meeting with their father; it was the same tone. 

The woman's smile never wavered. "This," she intoned easily, an eerily familiar sparkle entering her eyes, one they had only days ago seen on Shirk--the same one every bad guy used when trouble was about to shift from "manageable" to any level of seven hells. Her slender hand moved to indicate something to her right, and for a crazy moment, he thought she meant the slave girl and felt righteous anger rise in him, outraged at the very thought. She would not even bat an eye! 

Without conscious decision (before he could shout about the injustice), his eyes down to follow her hand, morbid curiosity prompting him, and found she was not pointing to the girl at all, but to a bottle that was the lone object on a tray held at waist level by the girl in question. He had not noticed it when she entered, had, in fact, missed it--or at least not truly registered it-- because of her eyes. 

It was simple fare as far as bottles went, no different than one you might find if you went to a bar for a drink. Truly, he thought he might have seen a similar bottle the last time he, Elladan, and Legolas had snuck into the cellar of the palace to swipe a few samples of the Mirkwood King's store, but it was hard to say as he rarely paid overmuch attention to the bottle itself. It looked familiar, in any case, with its rounded base stretched into an elegant neck half again as long as the base, but he was nearly positive it was not wine held inside. Its dark glass kept him from glimpsing the fluid it held. 

An impulse he did not understand made him look at the dark-haired man, but his gaze was impassive, his eyes consciously blank, as if he wished to hold his thoughts from the elves as much as they desired to hide their own from him. Yet there was that feeling again, that feeling he could not identify. He wondered what it meant, if it could be used. . . . Confused, he turned back to the woman. "What is it?" He asked, voicing the obvious question. 

She seemed pleased he asked though she did not give the kind of answer he expected. "We thought you might be thirsty," the woman simpered. "And we _know_ how much Elves love their wine. This is a sample, of a . . . _special_ brew." 

_If that's wine, I'll walk willingly through the gate of Mordor without a weapon_, he thought immediately. 

The sudden, nearly childish urge to back away grabbed hold of Elrohir, then, nearly pressing him against the stone wall which staunchly prohibited any such action. It was another thing about stone he did not like, though a voice that always said what he did not want to hear whispered that stone or chains, chains or trees, they all accomplished the same thing when put to the same use. 

Elladan stared at her stonily. "We're not thirsty." 

Again, she smiled that predatory smile. "But Lord Shirk insists. You wouldn't want to offend your host, now, would you?" 

"In a word?" Elrohir asked. "_Yes_," they answered simultaneously. 

"We had a feeling you might say that," she answered, his smile somewhat fixed, her tone suddenly a lot less cheerful. She cast a quick glance at the Silent Watcher, who made no sign, then turned back to them and sighed, the barest hints of a smile ruining whatever effect she had hoped to gain with the mannerism. "We had hoped you wouldn't make us use this, but alas! You have left us no other choice." 

The large man abandoned his post near the entrance and moved up beside her. He rubbed his hands together, an anticipatory smile curving his lips on his fat face. "This is our Enforcer," the woman announced. "Prisoners who prove difficult get to know him quite well. I suspect you will become great . . . _friends_. Now, the rules here are simple: you do what we say. If you don't, your twin answers to _him_." She jerked her head back towards the Enforcer. "What say you now?" 

"You're sick," Elladan spat, his dislike for this new twist obvious. 

The redhead smiled, and before either could really comprehend what was happening, the big man stepped in front of Elrohir and hammered his fist into the younger twin's side just beneath his armpit. Elrohir gasped as pain flared through him, but no air entered his lungs. For a moment, he panicked as his lungs rebelled against him, refusing to work and draw breath. They seemed to freeze and with them his heart. Then the moment passed and he dragged air in starved lungs, slumping tiredly against his chains. 

There he paused so his breathing could approach something normal, then the elf grimaced and straightened, casting a quick glance at his brother as did so to assure the other that he was alright. He assumed an unconcerned expression and raised his head, going for regal and untouchable. "That was uncalled for," he observed neutrally as soon as he had breath enough to do so. 

"Quite the contrary, Elf," the woman replied, appearing vaguely amused by his efforts. "It _was_ necessary. Your kind respond much better to demonstration than words." 

"Does Shirk know you think that?" Elladan asked, hostile, seething with anger for his twin. 

Her grin widened. "That's what he taught us." Elrohir blinked. "But we've wasted enough time on pleasantries. It's time to take you medicine. Neika," she called. The girl stepped forward. "Give our guests their medicine." 

As the youth walked towards Elladan, he glanced at Elrohir. Helplessness, the same helplessness he himself felt, reflected back at him from his brother's eyes. He wanted to tell him not to do it, not to give in, but he already knew it would do no good. He knew he would never subject his brother to unnecessary pain if all he had to do was drink a potion, and neither would Elladan. He smiled tightly and got a slight smile in return. 

Elladan glared at the woman the entire time it took the girl to approach, instinctively knowing it would have no effect on the child, then tipped his head back when the bottle was pressed against his lips, obediently downing the liquid presented to him. His lithe form shuddered as it went down and Elrohir had to battle down the urge to charge forward and knock the bottle away, not least of which because it would accomplish nothing save to provide their captors with a reason to further harm his brother and get a good laugh at their expense. But fears swam in his mind, ceaseless and troubled. What if this substance did to Elladan what that Ungwale had to Estel? What if he lost Elladan like he feared he might lose his human brother? He could not take it. He could not. . . . 

The girl stood before him without his awareness of her crossing the floor and he blinked at her a moment with no notion as to why she stood before him. A distant part of his mind noted that she moved quickly. Then the bottle was pressed to his lips and tilted. He swallowed convulsively, his small retreat doing nothing to dislodge the bottle, the liquid against his lips prompting the response even as his mind finally caught up with what was happening, why he was accepting this foul drink against all reason. 

His eyes widened as the potion slid down his throat, freezing the flesh so it felt like it would shrivel away to nothing, then burning hot as fire and clinging, burning hotter till he thought his throat must turn to ash and crumble away. He gasped as the bottle was drawn away, pulling in air in startled surprise as a whiplash shudder worked down his spine, a shudder he tried to suppress with little success. Unconsciously, his wide blue eyes sought out the woman's face. 

"Interesting, isn't it?" she taunted carelessly; she could have been talking about the weather. "The plant that made it was discovered in Ithilien; quite by accident, I assure you. The girl who found it was . . . rather startled when she discovered what its effects. Heightens your senses: hearing, touch. . . . A world of possibilities is opened with a single drug. Simply imagine." 

"You're sick," Elrohir croaked, unable to come up with anything more fitting than what his twin had already declaimed. He had already known Elladan was smart. 

Her smile remained fixed; her eyes hardened. "We simply want you to get the best experience possible," she purred. "And we know just who can help us achieve this goal." 

Elrohir blinked as a second large-built man stepped into his line of view, his mind taking a moment to process the fact that there were, indeed, two separate men instead of the first one somehow managing to clone himself. Inwardly, he hit his head at the thought, silently moaning, _This place is getting to me_, while lamenting his loss of sanity, though a quiet voice that was not inclined to listen to him noted his clone idea was not exactly unfounded. 

_Where do they find all these similar looking people?_

The two who stood before him were the same height, not even separated by a quarter of an inch, with the same broad shoulders and identical grins. That the new one had hair and eyes perhaps two shades darker brown and a deeper tan meant little. They still could have been twins. That the new man was also trimmer, his physique more refined, caused him to worry a bit of worry. 

_Just a bit_ more, he amended to himself, cautiously admitting that his worry was growing with each new factor added. He had little doubt that the new arrival was also an Enforcer. The men shared a similar air of lethal strength that was nearly tangible to the younger elf. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably since it would reveal more than he wanted this woman to know. It required little imagination to figure out what was going to happen. Having already been exposed to the first's effectiveness, he was hard-pressed to keep his anxious anticipation from turning into fear. 

He watched as she turned to the pair and lowered her voice. "Do you two know what you're supposed to do?" She received two nods. "Good. A pleasant day, gentle beings," she called more loudly, a cheerful smile on her face that almost covered the resentment and disappointment in her eyes. He realized why only when she began ascending the stairs. Obviously, she had wanted to stay and watch. 

_Or participate_, a nasty little voice sneered. It was discomforting to realize that she was probably more than proficient at causing pain--despite her small stature--than he wanted to admit. He wondered if her administrations would be more painful. 

The Enforcers glanced back at the only other occupant of the room, questioning. The man with gray eyes nodded shortly, the barest jerk of his head, and they turned to face the elves with nearly identical smiles on their faces, smiles he had last seen on orcs. . . . 

For a moment, he was no longer in a smooth walled room facing down human tormentors. He was back in a dark cave, the uneven wall pressing sharply against his back, the blocky shackles biting deeply into his flesh. Sweat and blood mingled on his skin, burning lashes, and harsh, cruel laughter assaulted his ears, ringing, reverberating, over and over. Yellow eyes leered into his own, full of dark promise, foul breath hot against his skin, and jagged yellow teeth flashed around an empty, dark maw. . . . 

"We're going to have some fun, Elf." 

Elrohir blinked. The walls were smooth, the room nearly bright with early morning light and a human stood before him, not an orc, grinning as if the Solstice had come early. Relief mingled with renewed dread, flooding his body with fresh adrenaline, adrenaline that had nowhere to go. His head ached, whirled, unfocused on any one thought as it raced for a way out, overwhelmed by the information it received. Disjointed, he watched the man step closer, rubbing and hitting his knuckles into his free hand, the meaty smack loud in his ears, unnaturally loud. 

"We're going to have lots of fun." He winced at their booming voices. 

The first blow caught him by surprise, expected though it was. One moment both hands were in clear view; the next, a fist was buried in his side. Pain erupted, flared, stretched out to engulf as much of him as possible, then faded into a dull ache. Vaguely, he registered a sharp hiss and felt sharp metal bite into already tender flesh as his body tried to curl inward, tried to protect itself. 

The next blow fell on the other side, mind-numbingly hard, and his breath escaped him in a rush, a grunt following close on its heels. Some part of his mind not effected by the pain managed to note this felt much like the time he had been kicked in the ribs by that fool pony of Estel's (the most ill-tempered beast he had even met) when the boy was seven. Who's idea had that been? 

The third blow fell, nearly hard enough to convince his body to meld with the stone wall, and any breath he had managed to regain was lost. The fourth ensured it remained gone, and nothing had changed by the fifth, except he could not longer remember what it felt like to breath. By the sixth, dark spots were beginning to dance before his eyes, and the pain had become his existence. He could not remember a simple beating ever hurting this much--then again, he could barely remember anything at all. After the seventh, he could no longer separate the individual blows, much less count them, and conscious thought spun further away. 

Without his realizing, the blows stopped, his lungs responding to the cessation of hostilities before his mind realized the fact. Quickly--noisily--he dragged air in, the effort stabbing knives through his chest, or at least jabbing long sharp sticks into it in the absence of knives. He had not seen anything shiny, after all. 

As oxygen returned to his brain, he realized his legs had given out beneath him, bequeathing the task of keeping him upright to his arms. His hands felt like they were being sawed off with a dull, serrated knife and his arms slowly being pulled from their sockets. If his chest no longer existed as a solid mass, he would not have been surprised. Aside from the holes it now undoubtedly sported, it felt like he had been slammed--repeatedly--with a huge boulder flung from a catapult. His ears rang, like he had been trapped in a small space with dozens of dwarves hacking away at stone with metal picks, the report of their axes rebounded and magnified off the empty walls. 

He groaned--and nearly choked on the sound as he discovered sharp edged rocks had lodged themselves in his throat (or some sadistic women had scratched the tender flesh with horribly long nails). He swallowed painfully, trying to relieve the burn and looked up to see what was going on. 

Light lanced into his eyes, engulfing them in flame, and he quickly looked away, feeling as if the small orbs had emploded as the lids flew shut of their own accord. A red hot poker flew through his skull to force its way through his temple, seemingly coming from the inside though there was no room to throw it from in there. He clenched his teeth around a moan that desperately wanted escape, the still rational part of his brain telling him that was why his ears rung. 

Gradually then, as silence fell in the room and no new abuse was heaped upon his body, Elrohir began to adjust to the pain, his body accepting it and allowing him to look past his immediate surroundings. As he could do so, he became aware of heavy breathing--his own and his twin's, unnaturally loud to his sensitive ears. Past it, he could make out the breaths of the other individuals in the room, every sense heightened, the stench in the room nearly making him gag. 

It felt like hours had passed. 

"Now you know," the quiet man said, his voice obscenely loud in Elrohir's ears, even as he suspected from the tone that he was speaking barely above a whisper (an appreciated fact if it was true), "what your resistance will earn you. And this was only a taste. There are other, more effective ways of doling out pain. How much are your secrets worth?" 

The elf barely had time to register his last words before his senses were assaulted once more. He heard a scream somewhere to his right, one he knew must have burst his eardrums, then his world exploded in pain--hot, burning agony that melded and pulsed, pushing out all other thoughts, and he felt himself spiraling down a dark chasm that never seemed to end, the comforting release of oblivion hovering just out of reach as his mind and body were ripped to shreds. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Torl stood motionless by the entrance to the still-dark cell Shirk had chosen for his elven guests, watching with disinterest as the twins' bodies fought against the drug that pulsed through their veins, seeking the release that was denied them as pain engulfed them, dealt by the heavy fists of the Enforcers. 

Some men--and women--found pleasure in listening to screams of pain. They gained a strange sort of rush by seeing men, women, children bound and helpless before their mercy. They liked to strip people of their dignity, take away everything that person had ever called their own, and break them, shatter them. It made them feel strong, powerful, untouchable; that sense of mastery brought on by completely destroying another being creating the ultimate rush they craved. They enjoyed the blood and bruises. 

He did not. 

Nor did he find any sympathy for the beings stuck in their own little hell. Any such feelings had been beaten out of him years ago. He was far removed from the boy who had gotten sick the first time he saw a man's flesh sliced open as the being writhed in metal cuffs and let silvery tears stream down his own cheeks as a mirror to the tortured's own. He was no longer the little boy who screamed himself hoarse over nightmares with blood or flinched every time he was forced to put sharp blade to pliant flesh and listen to whimpers or screams as he create holes that were never meant to be. He no longer saw the beings behind the flesh, that stared back at him pleadingly from pain-filled eyes. They were dead; from the moment they were placed in shackles, their fates were sealed. It was only a matter of time. 

A hoarse moan, barely a passage of air past lips that was probably meant to be a shriek, interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention firmly to the bound elves. They were nearly finished, the smack of flesh against flesh still sounding through the air. Soon to be colorful bruises marred their chests and glazed eyes stared sightlessly out of mostly lidded eyes. Neither flinched any more as new blows landed amongst the old. 

He glanced outside. Nearly six hours had passed since their arrival. Shirk would pleased; he had expected it would take eight. 

Torl motioned the Enforcers to stop. They stepped back and bowed, lightly massaging their knuckles without seeming to register the motion. He stayed still as they trooped past him up the stairs, their footsteps loud and grating on his already tense nerves. He pressed his lips together in irritation. 

When the last heavy thud ceased echoing off the stone walls, he paced over to the first elf. He tried not to think of what he should be doing, had his lord not called him away to oversee this mess, of how many things could go wrong while he was stuck here. It was not that he enjoyed his duties, but he lacked faith (quite reasonably) in the skills of his personnel and knew orcs to be troublesome under the best of times and was simply waiting for something to go wrong. He did not like leaving them on their own, unsupervised, for so long. Yet he had learned long ago the penalty for inferior work, and he would never dream of leaving his assigned task until it was complete; which meant he had to examine the elves. 

He stopped before the first elf and stared at it, disgusted in spite of himself. Pushing all irrelevant thoughts aside, he learned forward, placing his ear near the other's mouth to check if he was breathing; he was. The man straightened, then pressed his fingers against the being's throat to check for a pulse. It was a little fast and labored, but he had expected nothing else. The drug, itself, would do that. 

With an inward sigh, he used the elf's hair to lever his head back so he could look into his eyes, noting distractedly that the elf would have found it quite painful if he had been aware. His left hand rested on top as he used his right to open the lids. There was no hint of awareness in their depths, but that was not what he was looking for, anyway. The potion had never been used on elves before. 

Torl shifted further to the left and pulled a small mirror, one easily held in the palm of his hand, from a pocket. Deftly, with an ease born of long practice, he pried the lid up once more and caught it with his left thumb, freeing the hand holding the mirror. He angled it to catch the light from the doorway and flicked it across the being's eyes, watching the reaction closely. Then he repeated the same with the other eye. Satisfied, he put it up and walked away. 

At the entrance, he pulled out a different mirror and angled it how he needed it, the sun's rays focused on the joint between the far wall and the ceiling about a foot from the corner. Then he stood and calmly crossed to the other elf, prepared to carry out the same examination. 

He frowned when he heard this one's breathing. It took far too much effort, wheezing in and out with a wet kind of gurgle that should not be present no matter how bad he had been beaten. Even as he listened, it seemed to worsen. His frown deepened as he checked the elf's pulse (just as fast but weak, too weak) and concluded he would need care. With a tenderness that was more trained than anything else, Torl gingerly pressed against the being's ribs, his frown deepening with every broken rib he found. When he crossed one that made the elf cry out, wetness popping in his throat, he knew what had happened. 

Torl's eyes were darker when he stepped back, the threatening gray of thunderclouds. He stared at the elf for a long moment, trying to decide what to do. The idiots had broken the elf's ribs, whether intentionally or not, and that broken rib had been shoved into his lung during this latest beating. Now blood was pooling in it, and if something was not done, he would die, which posed a problem. 

Shirk wanted both of them alive, was adamant about seeing that both twins lived. He had deemed it important when Conyc and his men had expressed doubts, but he had not said why; only Torl already knew. Kelt had mentioned it once during one of their few late night talks when neither had been able to find sleep. Her mother had been an elf and she had told him elves could die of a broken-heart. 

_"When they grow weary of the world, Elves can choose to leave it," she said. "They may flee to Valinor, and there find eternal peace, or release their souls from the ties that bind it to this world and fly to the Halls of Mandos."_

__

_"Why?" he asked, tired enough to fail to stop the question. "How?"_

__

_"When grief becomes too much; when they are forced to endure something beyond their strength; when a loved one dies, perhaps."_

__

_"Like who? A husband?" He stared out through the dark trees that hid their camp._

__

_"Or a wife, sons, daughters . . . sisters or brothers; the people who mean the most."_

__

_"Nirt wants to break an Elf," he mused idly, the admission triggering the thought, then nearly bit his tongue off for such carelessness. One did not simply voice one's thoughts; it was dangerous. It was disturbing how often Kelt made him admit things he would have never dared spoken, yet he never managed to mind once it was done. Maybe that was how she had risen through the ranks of the Slyntari so quickly. . . ._

__

_She stared up at the stars and curiosity made him follow her gaze, seeking out the star she had once identified as Earendil, though he could not longer remember why she had noted it. Her quiet voice shook him from his reverie to look down at her face, sad in the silvery light. "Elves aren't broken; they die."_

He had wondered, then, if she spoke of her mother, dead almost two years, but morning light had begun to chase away the spell of safety darkness had created and he had never found out. Now, he wondered if she had not somehow known Shirk would go after the twin sons of Elrond; it would not surprise him in the least. But he knew that if one brother died, the other would follow--probably quicker than he could imagine--and until they had served their purpose, that could not happen. 

Torl found no reason to erase the frown as he finally stepped forward and pulled the elf's head up. He brought the mirror back out and quickly flashed the light across the being's eyes, watching carefully for any sign that his injuries had aggravated the drug's effects. Yet he found nothing, and that, at least, was good news. It was not, however, enough to relieve the tension that ran through him. He cast one last disgusted look at the elven twins, then turned and ascended the stairs without looking back. He would have to report the difficulty to Shirk. 

His booted steps bounded loudly off the stone in the small space, effectively announcing his arrival to anyone who stood outside long before he could see them, doubly so as it was ill advised to turn any attention away from the steep stairs. He was startled to look up and find Shirk waiting for him, regal and threatening as ever, and knew he should not be. But elven eyes, especially Shirk's, were just one of those things he was convinced a man could never get used to having fixed on you. There was something about them. . . . 

"You do not have good news to report," Shirk noted, his voice surprisingly calm, almost worried instead of the forbidding rumble he had expected, but he did not feel like voicing that news first. 

He took a deep breath. "The potion worked as expected, my lord. There appears to be no unfortunate side-effects." 

"But?" Shirk growled, the threat returned to his tone. 

"But the far-Elf's lung has been punctured," he continued, knowing better than to try to sugarcoat it. "It is filling with blood." 

For the briefest of moments (an eternity to Torl's eyes), the blonde-haired elf looked like he would explode. Anger seemed to travel from his feet to gather at his head, multiplying as it traveled up, and the man fully expected him to order him executed on the spot-- 

Then the anger seemed to vanish, disappearing with a speed that did not bode well for whoever ended up at the mercy of the elf lord's temper. "Very well," Shirk purred. "Find Akin and have her deal with him. Tell her to make sure that Elf lives, then return to your duties. I will deal with the fools who cannot follow orders." That last was a low growl that spoke of swiftly falling doom. 

Torl saluted, wisely ignoring the final remark, and immediately went to find the woman healer. The faster he found her, the faster he could be released from his responsibility for the elves. Sooner was better as far as he was concerned. 

In fact, the sooner this business with the sons of Elrond was complete, the sooner they could get rid of the orcs, too. And that day could not come soon enough. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Rivendell was calm, peaceful. The sky was a high, cloudless blue lit by the soft glow of the distant sun, an infusion of light that seemed to soften angles and resist shadows, the even glow seemingly touching all life. The trees, tall and majestic, stood waiting with outstretched limbs for the first snows of the season, patient, though the snows were late. Most of the birds had migrated, heading further south and the little creatures that called the valley home were already settled in their warm burrows and caves. Occasionally, if one was very still and waited long enough, one could catch a glimpse of a squirrel gathering last-minute acorns, or a raccoon creeping out to have a last scent of the weather. Waiting, but calm. 

Upon a balcony overlooking the lands to the east stood an elf in rich blue robes, lined in silver and layered over a light gray. His dark hair was perfectly in place, woven into the intricate braids he favored to keep his long hair out of his eyes, a deep, piercing blue nearly the exact shade of his robes. A delicate, twisted circlet rested upon his head, and his hands rested easily against the carved balustrade that separated the drop from safety. To all outside observers, he looked the epitome of calm. 

Inside, he was anything but. 

Lord Elrond stared out over the grounds and tried to still his anxiety. The days since his youngest son and the young prince of Mirkwood had set out on their quest had waxed long, the days passing on in slow eternity unhurried by an outside force. The foreboding he had felt, a dark weight in his mind, hovered about his thoughts in increasing shadow the longer they were gone. And here he was left. 

If ever he had thought his sons not in danger, that time had long passed. Now he knew that their danger grew, expanded the longer they were captive of this darkness, their deaths becoming more certain as their chances of survival grew few. The urge to ride out and help them, snatch them from the jaws of death before they could be stolen from him forever, was strong, yet he knew not even where they were. He had no direction and not time enough to scour the lands for his children. And this did not even include the youngest son, the one he feared for against his will, the one who must someday leave him no matter how tightly he would hold him. 

Aragorn had passed beyond his thoughts some time ago, lost to him sooner than he had thought. He had done his best to stay calm then, and not assume the worst, but when Hodoer rode into Rivendell, rider-less, he could remain inactive no longer. Glorfindel had ridden out that day, to find news of his son, and only the lack of hurt upon the steed kept him from losing his mind until the Balrog slayer's return. 

The week that took nearly proved too much for his tortured nerves, and the word his friend brought back hardly better save one truth: the human lived. In the knowledge that none had perished, he had forced himself to be content, to present a facade of peace and stability to those around him, and continue on as if naught was wrong. 

Inside, everything was wrong. Four children (if only to his eyes) he loved dearly walked in deadly peril and he could do nothing. Not yet. 

The urge to send out riders to follow his wayward human son was strong. He knew the aid would be needed, but how soon? How much time would be lost in trying to find the trail of a ranger and a prince, both of whom could disappear in the flicker of an eye? It was all a matter of time, time that was slipping between his fingers like sands in an hourglass, lost with no way to retrieve them. 

Elrond dropped his head and closed his eyes, no longer able to bear the beauty of Rivendell when all he had available to his was the darkness of his thoughts. He had to act. Yet if he acted too soon, all was lost; and if he waited too long the result was the same. How would he know the time when he did not even know the danger? 

"My lord?" 

The elf lord straightened but did not turn and face the owner of the voice. He knew who stood behind him, had expected the blonde-haired elf, friend of so long, to follow him eventually. The other stopped perhaps a foot behind him, just out of sight unless he turned. 

"Elrond?" 

"I am well, my friend," he assured, his voice not belying the turmoil inside him. That his friend did not believe him was a given, but he was relieved when the Balrog-slayer did not pursue the matter. 

Glorfindel shifted slightly, folding his hands before him. "The riders are ready. We can leave as soon as you give the word." 

As soon as he gave the word. . . . He could have riders out, looking for his sons, out there instead of in here, stuck and helpless, ready to lend aid to his loved ones who so desperately needed it. He could . . . but he could not. 

His eyes slid closed in helplessness. "Thank you, my friend. Please have them stand ready." 

"We are not to go now?" Surprise almost made it into the light-haired elf's tone, but the other was too disciplined to show it. 

"No," Elrond answered, feeling his heart rend in his chest at the admission. "It is not time." 

He felt Glorfindel nod, but could not turn to look at him. Time. It all came down to time. He opened his eyes and stared out over the lands, peering into the distance as far as he was allowed. He could only pray he did not wait too long. _Forgive me, my sons,_ he bid helplessly, silently_._ A single anguished tear rolled down his cheek. 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

*~*~* 

*~*~*~*~* 

_Review Responses:_

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__Tychen: I understand. Lol. I know what you mean by that, too, and I'm delighted to be among your favorites, for whatever reason. *g* That's why I included them. I'm glad it worked so well. Lol. Well, no indication yet of whether they can pick up the pace or no, but that will come next chapter. Along with a few other things. . . . It has! More or less. Thank you. 

Grumpy: Yes. Well, sort of. *g* He's using them to try to get Isildur's heir, actually. He doesn't yet know who that is. But he does expect the ranger to show up since the twins showed up for the ranger, and we'll see what happens from there. Isn't it fun? 

Nerfenherder: You're welcome! And I have managed it again! Lol. Before we can save them, we have to get them properly in trouble. They're getting closer. Hm, I've never had a concussion either, but I imagine it must be something somewhat like a migraine. But if it seems plausible, I guess I've done my job (as I'm far too lazy to actually do research *g*). Lol. I rather liked that part, too. Oh, but there's plenty of rain, too. *g* I love my state. Lol. You were actually very close. What I had intended, though, was simple: destiny. *wide grin* Now the old man is weirder than ever, huh? Oh! I hate that! I have brothers who are constantly trying to steal the computer. I have just more or less established my dominance in that regard. Lol. If someone's online and the phone inoperable, everyone assumes its me. Me! Can you believe it? *tries to look mock outraged and fails, laughing* It usually is. You're welcome for the pictures. Glad to be of service. Have fun. 


	14. Before the Precipice

Are you mad at me yet? 

I'm mad at me. I'm absolutely ashamed that this has taken me a month to post. The only consolation I have to offer is that this is a long one: 26 pages as opposed to the 10-15 I usually have. Do not expect it again. I wish I could say I have the next chapter done, but I do not. It is planned somewhat, though, not that it is likely to help. I swear my stories resist planning. I had planned something else for Aragorn and Legolas, but it would not write, no matter how hard I tried.And I did try, which is part of the reason this has taken so long. 

I must warn you, also, that the next chapter is likely to be late, too, though I hope not quite so late. I have finals this week that must be studyed and then AP's after that. Anyway, I hope to have it postable by the end of this week, failing that, by the weekend after. It will depend largely on how cooperative the chapter is, and how much time I happen to have on hand to type it. 

Meerkat is a South African mongoose. I know that. I looked it up just to be sure. But meerkat is more fun and sounds better than mongoose, so I have chosen to use that instead. Forgive my liberties with nature. Also, I must tell you that while I love horses and horse-back riding, I am not so thoroughly familiar with the large creatures and their maintenance as I should like. Consequently, part of what I have included herein is likely impossible, but please indulge me. I think that's everything of the warning nature: though, I must tell you I'm not wholly pleased with certain points in this chapter. You'll likely note them yourselves. 

*g* Anyway, I hope you like this chapter better than the last one. I'm currently not in a talkative mood, anxious to get this posted as I am, so this is short. Responses are at the bottom. Enjoy.****

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**Chapter 14**

The air was crisp, sharp with winter's bite and the smell of snow off the mountain. The inhabitants of Dead Camp-- human, mostly --went about their duties with the kind of single-mindedness only fear can properly inspire. Cold eyes, a match for the weather, watched with dark disinterest. Then the being turned and headed into the maw of the tunnel at his back. The youths that stood to either side straightened painfully as he passed. 

The tunnel that led down into the heart of the mountain-- crisscrossed with other, lesser paths --was mostly dark, lit only by torches planted at regular intervals along the wall. They were too far apart to provide complete illumination, the band of light from one torch ending a half dozen paces before the next, but the elf who paced them, moving as an avenging ghost through the gloom, did not mind. The darkness did not matter; the evil that permeated it long familiar, almost a comforting caress against heightened senses that served wonderfully to instill fear among his underlings and his enemies. No, he did not fear this dark. It was home. _His._

Barely-there footsteps echoed in the darkness, caught and rebounded off malicious stone, thrown before the elf like a whisper of doom, announcing his presence with a subtlety that raced chills up one's spine, the source impossible to trace, impossible to measure. One could never know when he would come, but neither could they ignore that he _would_ come. 

Endless tunnel gave way to a modest cavern guarded by an almost elegant carved archway. The remarkable thing about this place, however, was not the stonework (though it was excellent, a tribute to the dwarves that had fashioned it long ago) --it was the fact that none of the light from the fully lit chamber bled into the shadowed hallway, a marvel Shirk had long put to use. 

Inside, strange rock formations gave the place a textured feel; the many sharp protrusions lining the walls cast shadows oddly, looking almost like grasping fingers stretched out to snare unwary travelers. A fair-sized pool of deep, crystal clear water trickled gently just off-center away from the entrance. Its soothing tones belied the almost paranoia-inducing quality of the tunnels-- belied, but enhanced, it's musical whispers so out of place as to feel a lie . . . a lure. 

Dead center lay the lone object that seemed truly not to belong, yet it rose from the very floor of the cavern, the stone uninterrupted in its flow. It was slightly broader than a man's shoulders at its widest, and just smaller at its smallest, washed white and flawless in its dimensions; it was an altar. It had stood there even before Shirk claimed these lands for his lord and he suspected the land itself could not remove the piece from its place. It stood just above waist height to a tall man and currently held a shallow silver bowl perfectly sized to cover every inch of the perfect stone. It was here that Shirk found the being of his intent. 

It was a man, but he seemed at once to carry great age beyond the accomplishment of that mortal race, frail and somewhat stooped with white hair and a long beard, and yet possessed also of a strength that denied such age. If one looked carefully, it could almost be seen that a second person hovered behind his dark eyes. An unwholesome air hung about him like a second skin, gone at a moment's notice and unnoticed by the willfully blind. It was this man he had come to speak with. 

The being did not move as Shirk halted, directly opposite him mere inches from the altar. Black eyes gazed intently into the fathomless pool, a slight smile curving thin lips. Shirk waited. 

"Everything is going according to plan," he said, his voice low but easily carried to elven ears, slightly lilted by a strange accent. "The Elf and Ranger are right on schedule; the villagers eagerly await their arrival, faultlessly prepared." 

Shirk's eyes narrowed. "How prepared?" 

"Their greeting is sure to be one the Elf and Ranger shall never forget." The man's smile deepened with cruel amusement. Shirk was not impressed. 

"They are not to be killed, Perego," he warned softly, menace curling through his tone. 

Dark, empty eyes rose to meet ice blue, free of both threat and subservience. They were deep wastes, impossible to fathom, and Shirk knew better than to think that just because he perceived no danger that it did not exist. "If they are so skilled as you think and half as lucky as you proclaim, you should hold no worries. They will survive to come running straight into your hands, just as we have planned. Everything is proceeding according to plan," he repeated. 

The reprimand struck his pride hard, but the only indication of Shirk's anger was the fire that suddenly ignited in his eyes. He was tired of playing this fool's game. "You had better be right, Sorcerer," he hissed. "Or it is your head that shall roll for Sauron's wrath." 

Perego watched as Shirk disappeared back up the tunnels as silently as he had come. A dark smile spread across his face and a low cackle filled the new emptiness of the cavern. _Soon,_ he thought,_ the Ranger will be in _my_ hands, Master Elf. Yes, everything is going _exactly_ as I have planned it._

*~*~*~*~* 

Mumbling nonsensical elvish words, Aragorn slowly passed his hand down Ardevui's leg-- doing his best not to startle the creature in any way and ignore the way she had lowered her ears at his approach --until he could wrap his fingers around her ankle. 

When the horse had started limping a bit late into the day, both elf and ranger had been concerned and decided to stop. Rather, Legolas had decided to stop without consulting his human companion, but the ranger would have insisted they stop anyway so he was not about to complain no matter how it stung that his elven friend should rebuff him so. 

Halted, Legolas had found the appendage that was giving his mount trouble and easily identified the problem. With barely a word, he had indicated that Aragorn should see to it and set about moving their few packs from Ardevui's back. That left him here, with his back to a creature's teeth, a creature who had shown a marked dislike towards him, who suffered from pain he did not yet know the cause of and feeling like he had gotten out on the wrong side of an argument with a cave troll-- that he felt so horrible, he would never admit to Legolas after what he had done. 

That between him and Legolas, he was the better healer, there was no doubt, but he could not imagine what was wrong that had prompted the elf to heave his mistrustful horse into the human's care. The beast seemed best pleased when she was gnashing her teeth at the source of her displeasure, likely imagining what the creature should taste like if she were to abandon her life as a herbivore. If the beast tried to attack him, he was not sure he would be able to get away (not that he was admitting to feeling sick or was complaining or anything), and doubts currently found harbor in his mind about whether or not Legolas would help him if she did. It was sometimes nearly impossible to read the fair being's mood, but despite the elf's studiously blank expression, the young man was sure Legolas was angry with him. 

Aragorn frowned slightly as he stared at his objective (Ardevui's hoof) and refused the impulse to look for his friend as he leaned up and into the mare's shoulder while pulling up on the leg caught in his grip. He was not surprised when Ardevui refused to budge; in fact, he had told Legolas more than once that-- no matter how much pain she was in --Ardevui would never let him treat her. She held him unworthy of her master's attentions, he was sure. On one such occasion, that blasted elf had looked him straight in the eye and said, "Then you have much in common, my friend." Aragorn resisted the urge to curse, well aware that any ill he uttered about Legolas would simply serve to encourage the horse to attack him sooner and fiercer and make his task far more difficult. That left only one option. 

The young man shifted his grip slightly and glanced behind him. Ardevui was staring at him like he had chanced to see Thranduil staring at a particularly repulsive pest he was about to squash. "Come on, my lady Ardevui," he murmured in elvish. "Let me see your foot. We'll make the pain go away." The large brown eye that glared at him was unmoved. Indeed, if anything, it looked more reproachful. 

Time to appeal to her basest desires. "The sooner you cooperate, the sooner I can go away. Legolas will not go anywhere until I've treated you, and you can't get rid of me for good until we reach Caivern." He wavered on telling the beast that he looked forward to that as much as she did, but decided against him. There was no need to give her more ammunition that she had already. With his luck, she would find it an insult and hate him all the more. "Legolas is perfectly willing to wait here as long as it takes. He thinks I'm pushing myself too hard; that if we don't stop to rest and let me recover, I will collapse. And the longer it takes me to treat you, the longer it will take you to heal. If you wait long enough, you may never heal completely and it would take us even longer to reach Caivern." He thought he saw something like fear flash in her eyes. 

He held her gaze a moment longer, hoping to convey more with his gaze than he had been able to convey with his words, then turned back to what he was doing-- praying she would cooperate so he would not need to resort to more drastic measures --and renewed his efforts to lift Ardevui's leg. She resisted a moment longer, then slowly shifted her weight and let the human pull her leg up. He wished he knew what had convinced her so he could keep it in mind for later use if the need arose. However, he suspected anything that meant she would be lame, kept him near her, or would serve to further harm him would work. Best not to tell Legolas that. It would either serve to amuse him at the human's own expense or anger him further, and the young man already smarted at the silence that hung between them, stung by the ease with which Legolas complied with his wishes, the very coldness of his regard. That it was what he intimated he wanted was no consolation to his pain. 

Aragorn briefly closed his eyes, inwardly shaking his head to turn his mind away from such thoughts, and concentrated on the hoof before him. He squatted, bouncing momentarily on his heels as he moved closer, and half cradled the appendage in his lap to get a better look. His silver eyes tracked over the hoof, noting there was nothing wrong with the hard nail, but the tissue it protected was red and inflamed with touches of blood visible in the cracks. In the slowly fading light (a rich orange-ish glow from the sun that sat half behind the mountains) it took him a moment to find the cause of the problem; but when he did, his jaw dropped of its own volition. 

Nestled securely between the hoof crust and the inner tissue, half buried in torn flesh, was a rock of roughly the size of an acorn as best he could make out, for he could not see all of it. It was a pale, nearly white color with hints of peach. He blinked at it a moment, too flabbergasted to breath. How had Ardevui picked up a stone? And here of all places? 

He looked up, staring across the open plains as dark locks of his hair hung in his face. Grass stretched as far as his eyes could see. He could remember passing no mountains, no quarries, no cliffs or stones that could account for this small rock, yet here it was, cradled in tender flesh that it cared nothing for. He would have thought it impossible; indeed, he had never heard of something similar occurring before, in an unshod horse over open plains, yet there it was. He wanted to laugh, but it was far to incredible for that. 

The young man twisted to look behind him at Ardevui, still feeling incredibly like the world had been turned upside down around him then resettled under his feet. Incredulous silver eyes locked on large brown. "Ardevui, dear elven steed. You travel in the right company-- you're just as cursed as we are!" A half smile twisted his lips. 

The horse did not seem to think it funny. She snorted irritably and snapped her teeth at him, swishing her tail for greater effect. She shifted away a little, as best she could, to have better access to the man who vexed her. 

"Kidding!" he cried quickly, ducking his head and shifting around with her. "Kidding. I meant you are nothing like me. Nothing at all." He glanced back at her. She was giving him a "get on with it or I'll bite your head off" look, and he did not want to tempt her to go through with it. He knew from experience that horse teeth were a whole lot sharper and more painful than they looked. He turned back to his task determinedly to bank his amusement. 

It slipped away quickly as his thoughts turned to Legolas, his friend's disapproving gaze slicing through him, and disappeared entirely as he studied the injury. A frown replaced any humor he felt, his healer's instincts providing a distraction from personal thoughts, as he tried to determine the best way to dislodge the stone without inflicting more damage. 

Treating the wound would not prove difficult as a simple poultice would suffice (mostly just to insure there was no infection), but he had not brought a pick to dislodge the stone, for elven horses rarely have need while traveling and rarely travel on stone packed roads. The Wilds certainly were not paved. Nevertheless, he now knew why Legolas had passed the chore off to him, no doubt assuming he had greater experience in the matter. But for chance when he had been fourteen, the elf would have been wrong. 

The men had come by way of a natural quarry some distance south of Rivendell, having become quite lost while escaping an ill fate, and had ridden with great speed through the treacherous rocks. One of their horses had picked up a stone and his father had thought it a good idea to teach him to remove them-- or at least a better idea than helping to see to one of the wounded men. Then, though, he had had proper tools. 

With a sigh Aragorn rocked slightly forward and slipped his dagger from his boot. It was the smallest blade he had, and he hoped it would be small enough. He fingered the weapon idly as he tried to work out the best method of extraction; he did not want to make the injury worse, after all. He could just imagine Ardevui's behavior towards him if he ever messed up her foot. And her attitude towards humans would certainly not improve if she got it in her head a foolish edan had been the cause of her going lame. Could Ardevui talk Legolas out of being his friend? 

He stiffened, the flippant thought shooting a jolt of fear down his spine. _It probably wouldn't take much convincing_. The image of him sitting in the middle of nowhere, looking on helplessly as Legolas abandoned him to stand next to Ardevui flashed before him, complete with disgusted looks. "I can't believe I ever thought you worthy of my friendship, _edan_." 

Aragorn shook his head sharply, relishing the stab of pain that lanced through his temples as it helped erase the torturous thought. His hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger and he forced himself to focus solely on the hoof. A deep breath lifted his shoulders and stilled his thoughts; the exhale banished the unnecessary ones and focused his mind. Tentatively, he moved the dagger over the rock, prodding it fractionally to gain perspective on how closely it was wedged. It did not take him long to discover it was firmly entrapped. The question, then, was how to get under it with a straight bladed knife. A pick was forked and hooked. 

He cautiously wedged the blade between the rock and the hoof, thinking that would cause the least amount of damage. Ardevui did not agree. 

She retreated sharply, pulling her foot from his grip and knocking him off-balance onto his hands and knees. He hissed as her hoof came down on his left hand and barely restrained the yelp of pain that battered in his throat for release. Gritting his teeth, he gathered his feet nearer him and leaned his shoulder into her leg until she had to lift it or risk breaking the appendage. He snatched his hand back the second he had room, rocking back on his heels before instinctively moving back a few paces. 

He crouched defensively where he was and raised his hand before his face, looking at it as if he expected to see it crumble into a thousand pieces. It looked to be in one piece. A test, then. He flexed it, slowly curling it into a fist before just as slowly uncurling it, the motion helping to assure his mind that the hand still worked despite the pain that wanted to freeze it in place. And he had good news: it still did not fall apart, nor did he feel bone ends grinding together. He made another fist and pressed it close to his body. The pain notwithstanding, the hand was not broken so he could live with it. 

Glancing to the right he found Ardevui watching him wearing the most curious expression he had ever seen on a horse. It mixed pain, confusion, betrayal, triumph, hesitance, contrition and a kind of vulnerability that he had never before associated with the animal all on a face that lacked human expressiveness. 

He frowned slightly, mostly out of confusion, and stood slowly; his body would not let him do otherwise. "I did not mean to hurt you, Ardevui," he began soothingly. "And I will try not to again, but that stone is deep and we do not have the right supplies. It will likely hurt worse before the end but you must stand still for me to remove it. Movement on your part can only mean damage on mine, and I would spare you that." Silver eyes met and held brown. It felt strange to be repeating the same exercise of trust with Legolas' horse that he had had to use the first time he treated the elf. He was surprised when she lowered her head and did not move. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle the proud animal, the ranger approached. He held out a hand like a small child approaching a large, strange dog and gave Ardevui every chance to move away as his fingers first grazed, then settled on her coat. She did not move so he stepped beside her and gently ran his hand back down her leg to her ankle. He was surprised when she put up no resistance as he once more lifted her hoof but only squatted, drawing her leg up so he could work on it with ease and resumed his task. Almost unconsciously, he began humming a soothing litany that he usually employed with tense or frightened animals or young children. It helped take their minds off the expected pain. 

With great care, he began the delicate process of working the blade down between the rock and the frog, pulling the flesh back as much as possible so he would not cut it. As he worked, moving the blade down fraction by fraction, his mind drifted back to his fourteenth summer when those men had ridden in from the south and he had his first and hitherto only experience with horses who picked up stones. 

~*~ 

It was spring. The weather was finally warm enough that he could come and go as he pleased inside the Last Homely House without every elf he passed inquiring if he was warm enough and warning either his father or his brothers if they doubted the veracity of his response-- not that they believed he lied, just . . . misjudged the case due to his youth and inexperience. It was this freedom, relative and incomplete though it was, that made spring and summer (particularly summer, because it granted him an added year to use towards his advantage in gaining leniency from his brothers) his favorite time of the year. 

Two elf maidens walked by and he smiled broadly. They smiled back and waved happily, but did not stop, chattering on gaily as they enjoyed the warmth and sunshine. With a cheerful wave of his own, he jumped the final steps to the ground and started off towards the southern reaches of Rivendell, briefly following the road before heading off into the forest to parallel the packed path, moving carefully to hide his presence as he had recently been taught and previously simply attempted to emulate on his own. 

He imagined he was following a group of bandits far from Rivendell along the East Road, like in stories he had heard his brothers tell. In his mind's eye, they were big men, wide and burly with thick arms and legs and a thick middle to go with them. Their dark hair was ill-kempt and matted, tangled among their beards which bushed out to obscure their faces. They were shorter than the elves by nearly a head and he could hear their heedless steps echoing from miles around, shadowed only by their loud, coarse voices that cried their foul deeds with shameless cheerfulness. 

A pair of women, their clothing slightly torn with round faces and long, tangled locks, were pulled along with them, their soft, distressed whimpers enough to flame the men's desires higher. From his position in the brush, he could see lust burn in their beady black eyes and his disgust for them grew. His pressed lips tightened as he followed them ever closer, moving ever quieter so he could spring his trap and eliminate their foul cruelty from the fair world of the elves. 

Stealthily, he crept on, his steps quieter than the keenest ears could detect, his senses thrown out to the world around him, mindful of every crack and rustle behind him, around him. No one would be able to find him if he did not wish it, not even Elladan and Elrohir. He was the best. The beasts that marauded as men were certainly no more aware of him than a deaf dwarf. It was easy to get in front of them and stay out of sight just off the road, watching them approach ever closer, blithely unaware of their impending doom. 

With practiced ease, he drew his sword, the blade barely making a sound as he pulled it carefully from the scabbard that hung about his waist. He held the blade down low so no light would catch it and tip his enemies off to his presence (not that they were bright enough for that, but one could never be too careful-- Elrohir had taught him that) and prepared to spring. 

His blood boiled with rage as the men began kissing the struggling women and excitement coursed through him as he anticipated the moment when he could erase them from this world, knowing victory would be his. He tensed, crouching further, imagining the glory that would be his when his family learned what he had done, then caught a strange sound; not strange because he did not know what it was or had not heard it before, but strange because he had not expected to hear it now, least of all in this place. And these sounds were not in his imagination. 

Hoof beats. Rapidly falling hoof beats. 

Estel straightened, looking away from his imaginary quarry (his game forgotten) as he struggled to find from whence the sound came. It sounded like it was coming from the south, but that was impossible, was it not? No one ever came from the south. Those roads had been abandoned as too dangerous when the valley walls destabilized from some disastrous event long past that he could recall to his mind from his many history lessons. The most interesting of those were the ones that dealt with Isildur and the One Ring, and his father's part in the battle against the oppression of Sauron; the others were most often forgotten, unless some battle was included which excited his imagination; the abandonment of the southern pass had held no interest for him, but now he sorely wished he could remember the details. He felt sure that knowledge would tell him who approached. 

Curiosity at this deviance from normality won out over wariness, and the youth stepped from the growth onto the long abandoned path south, silver eyes searching intently for the source, straining his human sight for the answers he sought. Away in the distance, he thought he saw a cloud of smoke. It rose from the ground half-heartedly, billowing out lazily as if it could scarcely be roused to excitement over this passage of beings who had not graced the area in more than a century. The last who had come had been intent on the valley's destruction, that much he did remember. 

Instinctively, the boy turned back towards Rivendell, not sure who rode with such haste to his home but confident his duty lay in warning his people, the people who had taken him in and let him claim them for his own. His booted feet pounded the path as he ran, his mind whirling with possibilities, with the thought that they could be dangerous and the dream of protecting his family and becoming a great and strong warrior like his brothers shining like a beacon in his mind. 

Yet horses are faster than men, even the elven-trained ones, and it was not long before the distant cloud resolved itself into horses and riders; and from there became identifiable as men who loomed high above him on their laboring steeds. 

Estel ducked into the growth as they drew close enough to see him, halting his dash for home momentarily. Wide silver eyes watched them pass, catching only a hint of reddish brown amid light beige and dark hair. Then they were up the road before him and he stepped back out to better see. There he caught the swords bound to their sides and immediately took off again, his heart fearful that he should return home to find his family dead if he was not there to help. 

Never before had the road home seemed so long, but he made it to the courtyard in good time, panting and out of breath yet anxious. Quickly, he took in what was happening even as he ran closer. There were eight men, fewer than he might have expected from the flurry of their passage, and the last dismounted even as he watched. Two of them supported a third between them and his father approached them. The others hovered about nervously, tiredly, as elves came forward to lead the horses away. 

A man, probably the leader, was talking rapidly to his father in the Common Tongue, but his words were too fast for the flustered teenager to catch, the words only indistinguishable sounds from so far away, though he did make out "attack" and "injured" from jumble. He made a mental note to study his mother's people's language more diligently in the near future. It annoyed him greatly that he could not understand what they were saying. 

His father spoke slower, perhaps trying to offer some calm, and Estel was able to catch his words as he finally came up behind them. "You bring ill news, but worry not, Friend. Your men will be well cared for here. No harm will befall you while you are guests in my halls." Estel wanted to ask what danger they feared. 

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. Your kindness and generosity are unparalleled. May no harm befall your house in all your days." 

"Get him inside," the elf lord instructed, barely nodding in acknowledgment of the man's final words. A pair of elves, servant's of his father's house, stepped forward and began leading them into the house. Estel followed them, curiously studying these strange men. 

They looked little like the rangers he had heard about and seen despite their dark hair. Their clothes were cut strangely, not at all like the clothes worn by the elves; and their skin was lighter than the rangers he had seen, like they did not spend much time in the sun. The light brown, nearly sand-colored material they wore was rougher than he was used to and stained in places, and it was partially covered by a vest that explained the red-brown color he had seen as they had ridden past him. Their breeches were a dark brown-- approaching black --that had a grayish hue to them, like they had been washed a few times too many and worn too long, the vigor's of travel beginning to undo them. Their boots were scuffed and heavy, their steps clanking on the close-pressed stone of the walk and were even louder on the marble stairs. Very strange. 

He glanced aside distractedly as one of the horses swished their tails across his cheek and shoulder, drawing his attention toward the animals being led to the stables. The saddles looked strange to his eyes, for he had only seen their like a few times (he used the one his father had had made for him only on the very rare occasion that he left his father's lands); they were different than his own, heavier and bigger and not of elven make with strange metal decorations that flashed brightly in the golden rays of summer sun. But even though they caught his eyes, they were not what startled him. 

"Ada, he's limping!" he exclaimed, pointing to one of the horses. The elvish rang through the air, halting all motion as everyone turned to see who had spoken. Silver eyes sought wise blue. "Ada, look!" 

The elf lord had turned at his son's cry, startled to find the human child so near. He had expected the youth to be long gone until an empty stomach called him back at supper time. He looked into tumultuous silver eyes, then followed the boy's finger to the chestnut steed being led away by one of the few light-haired elves in Rivendell. He studied the horse a moment before finding slightly startled, inquisitive gray-green eyes. A slight nod met his silent question. "Indeed, he is, Estel. You have a good eye. Would you like to go with Vandor? He will show you how to treat him, a variation with your lessons from me, if you wish it." 

Estel nodded quickly, momentarily distracted from the men by his love of horses, and followed the elves and weary steeds to the stables. Just before he entered, though, he paused and looked back. The last of the beings had disappeared into the peaceful halls, but he could still picture them with astounding clarity, the strangers that had entered with his family. He remembered seeing blood. For a moment, he felt an urge to turn back and learn more of these strange people. . . . Then a horse nickered and he turned to look into the stables. 

Vandor looked up and offered him a smile. "Estel, come here. You will see something peculiar, indeed." 

The elf had been looking at the horse's shoe, and the boy frowned, able to think of nothing that could be so peculiar about a horse's hoof. Still, he approached, reaching out to run his hand down the steed's flank. "What?" 

"This horse has picked up a stone." 

"A stone?" Estel repeated with a frown. How did a horse pick up a stone when it did not have any hands or fingers? 

Vandor nodded, pulling the hoof back up so they could view the underside easily. "Yes, a stone. It's extremely rare among Elven horses, but Men run into the problem quite frequently when they use small stones to form their roads and do not tend them carefully. Negligence most often causes these problems. See?" The elf indicated the hoof with a sweep of his hand and Estel leaned closer to get a better look. He found the flesh that was guarded by the hoof was really red near the stone, but more than that was difficult to see. He looked back up into the wise eyes of Vandor. 

"Mostly, it causes bruising, very painful for the horse, but occasionally it will do more depending on the stone. There is the risk that a horse so inflicted will go lame. If the stone cuts the frog, you also have to worry about inflammation. Best just to get it out quickly, though, no matter what the stone. The longer it remains, the further lodged it can become and the more difficult it becomes to dislodge it." 

Estel nodded. "How do you get it out?" the youth asked, watching his tutor intently, almost overly-intent as he tried to absorb every single bit of information. It was a focus his teachers loved but rarely received. 

"For that," Vandor replied, straightening and looking towards one of his helpers who handed him a flat, bent metal instrument, "you need a pick. Would you like to do it?" 

The boy blinked, mildly alarmed, but nodded just the same. "What do I do?" 

"Come take his hoof and hold it carefully," Vandor answered, shifting out of the way so Estel could take his place. "You've cleaned their feet before, so you already have a general idea. The difference lies in the target. Slowly work the pick in around the stone. Haste could hurt him, now, and this isn't a race. Good. Now lever it out-- easy. There you go! You're a natural, Estel!" 

Estel smiled, pleasure curling through him, as Vandor picked up the rock, an irregular shaped thing that probably would have been at home on a mountainside. He could picture a dwarf hacking away at a mountain's face and that rock falling free, left alone because it was too small-- abandoned. "Now what?" 

"Now," the elf said, "we take a bran poultice-- here." He showed the boy the mass. "And pack a healthy portion into the hoof. Go on." 

Obediently, Estel did as he was instructed, momentarily startled when the mixture was not cold, but pleasantly warm so as not to shock the horse when it was applied. "What does it do?" 

"The Bran? Mostly it's a precaution. But it will draw out any infection while cuts heal and ease the creature's pain. Now warp it." 

A square of cloth was given to him and he placed it firmly against the bottom of the hoof before smoothing the sides around and gathering them at the ankle so it formed a kind of sack. Then he wrapped a bandage they handed him around it and tied it off, securing the makeshift sack in place. He glanced up at Vandor to judge his approval. 

A warm smile graced the eldar's face. "Very good, my boy. We'll make you a stable-hand yet! And now you know what to do should your horse ever pick up a stone." 

~*~ 

_Except he never mentioned what you did if you did _not_ have a pick_, Aragorn groused in his mind, the thought lacking any heat or irritation as all his concentration was currently focused on his task. 

More than once the blade had sliced lightly into flesh as he worked the dagger down to where he could get at the stone, every light cut provoking a wince that was just held from expression. Healers were not granted the luxury of wincing when they were tending their patients. But much though he lamented the damage, he had finally worked the blade down to the stone. Now he gently worked the dagger back and forth, moving the hard object ever so slowly towards the surface. It took far longer than he would have liked, but he dared not go faster. Daggers, after all, though quite small (some of them), were not made for such delicate tasks. So though his legs cramped from supporting his weight on his toes and his headache increased as tension worked its way up form his shoulders, he maintained the same, steady pace. He was rewarded when the stone finally came free and dropped to the uniform earth. 

A tired grin briefly split his face as he picked up the stone from where it had fallen and gently lowered Ardevui's hoof back to the ground. He stood carefully, barely hiding winces as the change in position rent cramps through already abused muscles and turned to Ardevui. The world spun slightly and he blinked. Obediently, it settled back down-- a first in his experience, and was uncomfortably aware that his discomfiture probably had something to do with the fatigue Legolas had observed earlier. But that could be dealt with later. 

He stroked his hand down the mare's neck, inwardly noting his action with some surprise and blamed it fully on fatigue. Her lack of response, he attributed to indulgence for his efforts. "Hannon le, Ardevui," he murmured. "You are very brave. You do Legolas great credit. He is lucky to have you." She nickered, self-satisfied, and moved away a few feet to begin eating at the grasses. 

Aragorn turned, intending to prepare the poultice, and was surprised to find Legolas had returned from wherever he had disappeared to. He froze to the spot, studying his friend with a practiced eye, long acquaintance allowing understanding where no words pass. The elf stood distant, his face free of expression, his eyes dark. Had Aragorn not known better, he would have thought him unhappy being he had met at the edge of the wastelands who had despised him for being human. 

They stood a moment, suspended in quiet contemplation full of tension, both watching the other, each waiting, perhaps, for the other to speak, yet the barrier that had fallen between them resisted it. The young man knew he should say something, that it was his fault this silence lay between them, but he could not find the words to fix the wounds. To him mind, there was nothing, his conduct unpardonable. If Legolas never wished to speak to him again, he should not be surprised: grieved and ashamed, but not surprised. Hurt and bruised pride had hidden away the salve and he knew not where to find it. Instead, he averted his eyes and nodded briefly with a distracted smile, then continued on his original course. His heart contracted painfully at closing his friend out, but there was nothing he could do. It was kinder not to impose on he who put up with him so well. 

Legolas watched from where he stood as Aragorn turned away from him and crossed to the fire, his friend's smile dropping quicker than a stone as he seemed to collapse in upon himself, withdrawing into a solemn countenance wholly unfamiliar to him as he had never known the man who stood before. His blue eyes followed the human, noting worriedly that Aragorn was swaying again and his head was bothering him, evidenced by the hand that snuck up to his temple. The elf sighed, wishing he dared press his friend about his health again, but he did not. Once had been enough, and it had come to naught but this. 

~*~ 

The air was crisp and chill, the sun that hung high overhead too mild to offer much heat against the wind that battered against them. It made his eyes water as they rode, but he ignored them and kept on the lookout for a suitable place to stop. They had ridden from the early hours of the morning and it was time for a break. Ardevui labored hard beneath him, and she needed a reward for her efforts. 

Finally, not far in the distance (and not too far out of the way), he stopped a small pond that would serve well for their purposes, and directed the faithful steed towards it with a light touch on the reins. She obeyed easily, and it was not long before he was checking her pace, slowing it first to an easy canter, then to a trot before lulling her into a brisk walk that ended but a dozen paces from the ponds sloped edge. 

Legolas leaned forward, and nimbly swung from the steed's back without disturbing his human friend who rode behind him, though his sudden absence made the human start and blink, looking to him somewhat irritably. "What are you doing?" The man demanded, his tone sharp and reproachful. 

He glanced at Aragorn, his gaze level though he had to bite back a sharp retort the man's tone invoked. Levelly, he answered, "Making camp. Ardevui needs to replenish her strength. It is mid-day." 

Actually, it was a little past midday, easing towards two hours past, but such distinctions matter little at this point, and the elf busied himself with removed the packs and Aragorn slid down, dropping to the grassy plain heavily. Unburdened, Ardevui continued forward and dipped her head to lap at the sweet waters. Legolas began digging in one of the packs for some waybread and Aragorn continued past him to the water's edge. The human crouched before the pool and did not move. 

The elf prince watched him a moment before turning his eyes to the heavens. The blue orbs sought out the sun, judging her position in the sky. And though night came early in the winter, he knew it did not come so quickly as to warrant making camp so prematurely. Yet Aragorn's health worried him. He bit his lip, then stepped forward next to Ardevui and began stroking her neck, watching his friend from the corner of his eyes. "Perhaps we should camp here for a time," he mused. 

Aragorn's head snapped up sharply. "What?" he demanded, voice harsh. 

Bracing himself and speaking calmly, he explained him. "I believe we would do well for a rest." 

"We?" the man repeated, his tone fairly unbelieving, before darkening with something closer to scorn. "Do not sport with my intelligence, Legolas. You are not tired." 

"I am." 

The ranger studied him a moment, his eyes narrowed as they perused his frame. Legolas did not move or squirm, but the other was not impressed; that much he could tell from his friend's expression, even if he did not pursue the matter. Eventually, he said, "The sooner we find my brothers, the sooner we may be gone to rest in the halls of Rivendell and find peace." 

Legolas stepped closer to his friend, recognizing a certain longing in the young man, and attempted to prevail through logic. "We will. But we won't be of any aid to Elladan and Elrohir if we collapse before we reach them." 

Unexpectedly, Aragorn's eyes hardened and his form went rigid. Anger tightened his mouth. "I am fine." 

"You are tired," he countered, to used to his friend to contradict his assertion. 

"I'm a Ranger." 

The elf frowned. "What has that to do with anything?" he demanded, at a loss to fathom why the young man being a ranger would counter his claim of the human's fatigue. 

"It is who I am." Now the anger he had seen simmered in his friend's speech, and he could not explain that either. So far as he knew, he had done nothing to tempt it. 

"I do not contradict--" he began, blinking around his confusion, but Aragorn did not give him a chance to finish. 

"My mandate and duty is to protect the peoples of this land, as my fathers have before me. I will not forfeit my honor because of an inconvenience." 

"Inconvenience!" Legolas exclaimed, aghast. "You are driving yourself into the ground, human!" 

"It is of no consequence." Aragorn stood, turning away from him and the water and beginning to pace away from the pond. "We--" 

This time it was Legolas who could not let him finish. "No consequence?! How hard did you hit your head? On my word, human, you are the single most intractable being I have ever met!" Frustration made his voice louder than he would have wished. He forced himself to calm down and spoke with the firm finality he had learned as prince, the declaration brooking no argument. "You are not well. I will go no further until you have rested." 

"Then stay!" Aragorn burst out, flinging his hand angrily at nothing in particular and whirling to face his friend, his voice hard and sharp. "I care not. I neither need _nor want_ your help, you disagreeable, meddlesome _creature_! I will walk by my own power to Mordor and back if I must, and may Mount Doom swallow you whole if my brothers die before I reach them, your highness. It would be far kinder than what I could contrive!" 

Legolas blinked, utterly and completely stunned, as the man stalked away from him, ignoring the packs and continuing on in the direction of Caivern. All he could do was stare after his friend as he moved towards the horizon. 

~*~ 

Had he been able to form the words, he was not sure what he would have said, and it was likely better that he remain mute in any case. Anything he had said would only have made things worse, he was sure. 

He and Aragorn did not fight often (a fact that surprised his father for reasons the prince could not quite fathom) no matter how much they disagreed. They would bicker, sometimes exchanging sharp words neither of them meant harshly, both well aware of that fact, then one of them would give in and the matter would be resolved; but no matter how irritated or annoyed they were with the other, there were never any hard feelings laying between them. There was no such ease now. 

It did not matter that he had let the human get barely a mile before riding after him. It did not matter that he had helped the young man up behind him like nothing had happened and they had continued on as they had been. It did not matter because distance now lay between them, distance neither knew how to break. 

The elf prince stopped before Ardevui and offered a tight smile. "How are you doing, my girl?" She nickered softly, soothingly to his ears, and his smile widened. He stroke her strong neck, delighting in the comfort of the familiar. "Good. What do you say we clean you up a bit?" he asked, producing a brush. 

Originally, he had picked it up as an excuse to get near Aragorn, hoping the human would talk to him; but when the ranger had walked away it ruined his ploy to see about starting up a conversation so they could put the past behind them. However hurt or vexed he was with the young man's assertions, he knew full well Aragorn did not mean them. He could tell it in the way the other would never hold his gaze, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he worried his lips while watching him when he thought Legolas was not watching. Aragorn had spoken in a moment of temper, nothing more, and he knew it. He wished he could get the human to see that. He had forgiven his friend long ago. Humans were always quite irritable when they got little sleep, and stress was no little thing, even among elves. He could not have held the outburst against Aragorn had he wanted to. He might have just dropped it, then, and returned to the fire to see if that would work, but he knew even horses liked to feel clean, and Ardevui deserved such comfort as he could devise after what she had been through. 

His smile gentled as she nudged his hand affectionately, drawing him firmly back to the present and away from his unhappy musings. "That's what I thought." Without another word, he began, pulling the brush firmly over her back and watching as the shine slowly returned to her thick coat. It felt good to be doing something to aid a friend. _At least I can make one being feel better._ His smile faded. 

As Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas was used to a certain amount of control. His orders were followed without question. Nearly anything he said, went. His people looked up to him. Through his words and actions, he could inspire confidence and hope, peace, well-being. . . . If he told his people that all was well, they would believe him. If someone had been wronged, he could make it right-- could see that it was made right. That buffer of control, however, faded when he left his realm. 

A blessing, he had felt, for with that control came the pressures and responsibilities of his station. In Mirkwood, he had to be a leader; had to behave as royalty; had to make the important decisions, the sacrifices. Already, he had experienced how the mantel of his position kept him from helping his friend the way he wanted to. Twice, his duty had had to come before his heart. With Aragorn, the pressures of his kingdom eased. He did not have to be more than what he was. They shared the demands, juggled the necessities nearly equally between them (Aragorn always insisted it be so whether Legolas desired it or not): both leader and follower, comforter and comforted, protector and protected, shifting among the roles as the situation dictated. The only expectation between them was to be there for the other, and that was mostly an expectation they held themselves to, not the other way around. They were a pair of trees, side by side, swaying together in the same breeze so that slack left by one was taken up by the other. Such ease could not be accomplished so flawlessly with others. 

Elladan and Elrohir, twin terrors by the reckoning of all: elf, man, and orc alike, most often came in on the side of protector. They were Aragorn's self-proclaimed older brothers, always ready to rush in when the darkness crept too close and pull the friends from whatever doom hunted them, no matter what injuries they incurred on the undertaking. Bickering mother hens though they were, Legolas had always seen them as a reservoir of strength, an added support to lean on when it seemed like the whole forest was coming down upon them. And he was not sure, but he felt that despite the human's protests of being grown-up, Aragorn had always thought of them the same way. They were constants. 

Now, they were missing, held from that role, their positions switched with the two friends and neither elf nor ranger was used to being on their end-- rushing into darkness to save their family before it could destroy them. Legolas wondered how Elladan and Elrohir had managed to deal with the uncertainty and fear and pain and still keep their sanity intact. 

_Simple_, a sly voice answered his unspoken question. _They were not sane to begin with._

_And neither was Aragorn_, a sterner voice interjected cruelly. _So how much of him will be left if the twins die?_

It sounded remarkably like his father, that voice, and Thranduil's face suddenly floated before him, his expression set in that familiar "I am your king, you will tell me what I wish to know" expression that Legolas would not disobey callously, while his father's eyes bore into him, pitying, saying _"I warned you not to befriend a human, my son. I warned you of the pain."_

Then even as a part of him answered his question with "none, there would be none of my friend left," his mind lighted upon that empty and expressionless gaze he had chanced to see months ago that had replaced happy exuberance, and another part-- a stronger part --cried "no!" He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head angrily. That would not be the human's fate, his friend's fate. He would not allow it. He could not. 

A clatter and stuttered steps whipped his attention towards the fire. He had started forward before he even registered what had happened and forced himself to stop before he had traversed two paces. Aragorn crouched a few feet from the fire, apparently on his way over with various supplies in his hand when he had tripped over a strap off one of the bags, his foot catching in the length of cloth. The contents of the bad (Legolas was not quite sure what they were at the moment and did not care) had caused the clatter and not the objects the ranger held as the elf had originally thought. Amazingly, the bowl that was still grasped in the ranger's hand had not spilt, but Legolas was left little wonder as to the cost of that accomplishment when Aragorn failed to suppress a wince as he regained his feet. 

The elf resisted the impulse to abandon his chosen task to aid his human friend. While it was possible the young man's fall had simply been evidence of human clumsiness, the elf was nearly positive it was due to whatever ailment troubled the young man-- be it illness or fatigue. If he went to the human, Aragorn would know he knew, would think he thought him weak, and would pull further away. It was a strange thing, indeed, that he had noticed: whenever Aragorn felt unsure about his worth or strength, aid would always make him feel worse. He did not want to risk that. So instead of doing what his heart commanded, he pretended to focus on his brushing. He watched through his lashes. 

Aragorn came up on Ardevui's other side, her injured side, the side he had just finished brushing, and petted her neck. Legolas was almost surprised when the mare did not seem to mind the attention though she had bristled nearly every time he had dared come near her before. "One last thing, fair lady, and then I may leave you in peace," the human intoned softly. 

With an ease Legolas knew Ardevui would grant to no other human, Aragorn pulled her leg back up and quickly cleaned the inside of the hoof with water before gently packing a mash he vaguely recognized the smell of into the foot and expertly wrapped it to hold the substance in place. The elf prince dearly wanted to ask what the young man had done, but he did not quite dare as his friend lowered the appendage back to the ground and walked away, his back stiff in a way Legolas knew better than to attribute to illness. 

The elf prince sighed and resumed brushing. A slight frown marred his face, evidence of his frustration. "What do I do, Ardevui?" he asked quietly. "I think I may lose him before anyone has the chance to take him away." _Or I never really got him back in the first place, and these months have all been a dream_, he finished bitterly, silently. Should he push the human, no matter how much he pushed back, or keep his distance and hope the other came to his senses? He hated not knowing, able to do nothing but stand near and hope. 

It had been through Aragorn that he had come to know and love Elladan and Elrohir as something akin to brothers. Before the human had come along, he had known _of_ the twins, had even met them, but the vague, mistrustful animosity of their fathers had forestalled any easy attempts at camaraderie, and the rumors of personality had more or less done the rest. That he had been busy hiding in Mirkwood hating men while the twins roamed the Wilds helping men hunt orcs, both on opposite sides of the Misty Mountains, had pretty much assured the situation would not change in the near future. Then it had. And now Legolas was in danger of losing both the twins and Aragorn, again through the other but reversed. 

He could not help but fear losing the human more, their near-death trials having done more to erase the boundaries that lay between them than centuries of companionship could have, and he felt guilty for that, considering what that would do to his mortal friend, and even more guilty when he thought what that would do to Lord Elrond, who had given so much to himself and his friends. In one foul swoop he could lose everyone he had come to regard as family away from home. 

Legolas sighed again, this time more weary than frustrated. He had learned early that nothing was ever easy when it came to Aragorn; if he was to avoid what he feared, then he would simply have to find a way, and he would. 

"Be well, my sweet. We will need to travel in the morning." Whatever he had told Aragorn, or made the human believe, he had every intention of making Caivern before tomorrow had passed. She nosed the hand that pet her, whining softly in sympathy for his pain. With a last reassuring smile and pat, he turned and made his way to the fire. 

The jumping flames were bright as the sun disappeared beyond the western horizon, dipping behind the distant mountains to rest until the next day when she would once more share her beauty and warmth with the world. Legolas settled down before the fire, across from his friend, and watched the ever changing patterns. He wanted to look at Aragorn, wanted to talk to him, wanted to get the stubborn human to talk to him, but he could think of nothing to say that would reach his friend, that would not anger him further. So he sat, and he listened, and wondered how he could get the human to sleep. 

He listened as the light breeze rustled the blades of grass, listened as the flames popped and crackled, as Aragorn set about making a meal he probably would not taste, his spoon clanking hollowly off the metal, almost rhythmic in its timing. The sounds echoing in his ears, he laid back and looked up as the first stars appeared in the sky. Perhaps their beauty could distract his thoughts. 

Aragorn stirred the simple stew (little more than water, vegetables, and herbs) one last time and moved the pot out of the flames. Mechanically, he spooned the contents into two separate bowls. He reached back into one of the packs and removed some of the waybread, then stood with it and one of the bowls of stew and rounded the fire to Legolas' side. The elf sat up and accepted the food then watched as the young man returned to his spot to sit. He watched his friend reach for his own bowl of stew and think better of it. A quiet sigh escaped him as the human lay back without eating. Listlessly, he began picking at his own food. Eating, after all, was better than doing nothing. 

Besides, he had learned long ago that the human was more cooperative if he could not defer concern onto another. If he could not worry over Legolas, himself, not eating or not sleeping, then the elf could press him with a clear conscious, his friend unable to divert any of his concerns off of himself. At least, that was what he hoped. Yet even to do that, he needed to talk to his friend, but silence hung between them even as the shimmery heat that rose of the fire and made for the sky. Dare he break that silence? 

"Do you think they can see the stars?" 

Legolas' head came up, his eyes immediately seeking out his friend. The human lay on his back, legs stretched out before him, one hand resting across his chest and the other lightly holding part of one of the bags his head rested on, clutching it almost like a brace. He looked the most comfortable he had been in months. Hopefully, he would fall asleep and Legolas would not even have to do anything. Briefly, the elf turned his own eyes up to the stars. They sparkled brightly at him, especially Earendil. "I hope so," he answered. 

"When I was little, I had nightmares," the young man offered unexpectedly, voice soft. "Sometimes, I was afraid to sleep, so I just laid in bed and pretended I was until everyone was asleep. Especially Ada. He worried too much for me. I didn't want him to know I still had them; didn't want him to sit up all night and watch me with sadness." His was the voice of a lost little boy, his tired monologue a last ditch effort to stay awake so monsters in the dark could not come out and eat him while he was unaware. "Then, when they were asleep, I would sneak over to Elladan and Elrohir's room. They would let me sleep with them so the nightmares would be too scared to come, and when Ada discovered I had slept in their room instead of in my own, Elrohir said that we had been having a sleep-over like brothers always had-- nothing was wrong. They kept my secret, but I think Ada knew. I know Ada knew. After that, they would wait up for me; and sometimes, they would take me out to look at the stars. 

"Father used to tell me the tales of Earendil, especially when I was scared. He said that's why he was there, in the sky, looking down on us: so we could look up at him and know we were being watched over. He said that whenever I was lost, I should look up at the heavens and know hope because my ancestors were watching out for me. I was amazed. Then, after a particularly bad nightmare, Elladan and Elrohir walked me outside and Elladan drew me onto his lap. He pointed up and said, 'Do you see the stars, Estel? They are guidance and hope for the weary. Remember, whenever you are lost or afraid, that just like the stars, Elrohir and I will always be here for you. Whenever you have need, look to the stars. Find Earendil and take comfort that we see him, too. Then no matter how fare we are, we will always be near.'" Aragorn swallowed hard. "Do you suppose they can see him?" 

"They hold him in their hearts," Legolas answered, getting up and moving so he sat near the ranger. Silver eyes tracked to him as he sat down. "I'm sure their thoughts are with you." 

Aragorn shook his head slowly, his fatigue having caught up with him at last. His eyelids were heavy. He could no longer pull away from his friend. "That won't be enough. I think I remember, now, where I last saw those fletchings. I am sorry, Legolas. I do not know what came over me." 

Legolas blinked, his mind momentarily stuttering over the abrupt change in topic. "Do not trouble yourself over it, Strider; all is forgiven. You forget I know how unbearable you are when you are tired." 

"And I am tired, aren't I?" 

The elf prince looked at the man, not quite sure how to interpret that rejoinder, thrown by undertones he heard but knew not what to make of them. He answered slowly, "I have heard sleep helps." 

"That it does." 

If Legolas had expected the man to fall asleep, he did not, instead laying awake; his silver eyes fixed on the stars, nearly seeming to glow in the reflection of the light. Legolas resisted the urge to sigh once more. 

"Would you eat, Strider?" he asked at length, wary of the answer. 

"I would, but I am not hungry." 

"Not hungry? Nay, you have not eaten in days," Legolas cried, surprised and somewhat dismayed. "You will wither away to nothing, and then what good will you do your brothers?" He caught off abruptly, drawing his breath as he waited, fearing he had gone too far and Aragorn would start yelling again then stalk off into the distance, but the human did not speak, did not so much as twitch. Legolas sighed, shifting so he lay beside the young man to gaze at the stars. "Will you at least promise me you will break fast tomorrow morning?" he asked, his heart unable to maintain its silence in wake of his friend's apology. 

Aragorn did not answer immediately, but he did nod. "Aye, tomorrow. Do not think ill of me, Legolas." 

Legolas blinked, thrown again by the sudden shift. Humans, apparently, were more than simply unbearable when they were tired; they were also confusing. "Why would I think ill of you, mellon nin?" 

A frown briefly shadowed the human's face, confused. "You should." 

"Why?" 

"I cannot remember. I should." 

"Think not on it," Legolas advised. "Think only that we will find your brothers and return them safely to Rivendell." A fond smile touched his face. 

"Father will be displeased." 

"Indeed?" He half raised himself up to look at Aragorn's face, and found him to be trying very hard to hold on to his thoughts. 

"He will need to patch them up again. Maybe not just their bodies, either." 

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked, disquieted without knowing why. 

A shadow passed over Aragorn's face once more, grief and haunted memory present in the glance, but the human did not seem to hear his question, continuing on as if he had not asked. "Unless I am mistaken. Would that I am, but I fear I am not. I fear . . . I fear what we shall find if we arrive to late or fail in our trust. Broken. . . ." 

His disquiet deepened, planting furrows in his brow as he tried to push away images of Aragorn-- his eyes blank and face slack --from his mind, _broken_ repeating over and over. He shook his head sharply and had to swallow before he could speak, had to push away images of the twins finding a similar fate. He lightly touched the man's arm. "Then we will not fail," he declared, voice hard. 

Aragorn turned his head and looked at the fair-haired elf for the first time. A smile, sad and wan, curved his lips. "I am glad you are with me, Legolas," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper. "I did not tell you before, but I want you to know. The road does not seem so dark when you tread it with me." His eye's slipped closed. "I am glad, but I fear I lead you to your death." 

"You lead nowhere, human," he objected, finding this point important for some reason he could not comprehend. "I _choose_." 

The young man's smile widened, then faded as sleep claimed him. Legolas watched a moment before moving to tend the camp. There were yet tasks that needed to be completed ere he could surrender to elven dreams, and he was in no hurry to try. More disturbing than what the human had said was what he had not said. They would need to talk in the morning. He hoped he would find the answers to his questions more to his liking. 

He knew he would not. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Elrohir groaned as awareness filtered back into his brain, lifting him halfway free of the clingy darkness that had wrapped him in a cocoon of warmth far away from pain. That was the last time he let Elladan talk him into a drinking contest. 

_Elladan!_

He shot upright-- intended to. Adrenaline pumped by alarm flashed through his system, but it only served to bring him to full awareness. And that brought awareness of the pain. His ankles felt like they had been held, twisted, for too long at an odd angle and frozen that way; they screamed as he tried to stand on them. His legs did not want to cooperate, were not listening to his mind's commands. His chest and sides felt like someone had wrapped them too tightly and smeared them with hardening plaster to turn them into stone. If only that meant they no longer hurt. 

Fire burned around his shoulders, almost covering the stretched, disconnected ache that interfered with his arms' ability to receive and recognize commands from his brain. He could not move them. Yet every minute shift in position screamed bloody murder as some maniac dwarf played a saw over the joint, moving slowly, grinding away bits of bone little by little-- grinning madly, no doubt, too. And if that was what had happened to his arms, it could only mean someone had tried to chop off his head while he was sleeping and done a poor job of it. _Explains why my body won't listen to me, though. I'm not connected._

Not that he was about to let something so minor as that keep him from his brother-- even if he could not quite remember why he needed to get to him; details could come later. _El always did say my head wasn't on right._ But more than that: it had gained weight. It must weigh a tone, now; and his neck venomously resisted every effort to lift it, shrieking with every slight motion. He thought some insane dwarf--_ (elf_) --had gotten inside his head and replaced all the vertebrate in his neck with glass. And that glass was now breaking, shattering into horribly sharp vindictive pieces that immediately shot out to shred, dice, and mince his brain. 

_Maybe that would make it lighter?_

__

The elf would not have been surprised to find that someone had replaced his eyelids with stone. After all, they were far too heavy to be normal eyelids made of light, thin flaps of flesh, and just like everything else they resisted his efforts to make them move. Still, he was an elf, and an elf lord at that. And a stubborn one of the line of Earendil on top of that, and there was simply no way he was going to let stone eyelids, severed heads, and dwarf-shaved dislocated joints defeat him when his family was in danger. 

_Why was his family in danger?_

_Maybe Estel has led the meerkat to the house again?_ He had seen the way those things eat, and he did not doubt for a moment that he felt like one of their victims. _But I'm too big._ That had to be a problem. Did it not? Then again, maybe there had just been a lot of them. Still, meerkat or no, he was not about to let that stop him from seeing his brother. The older one. That one that looked like him that had better sense than to lead meerkat into the house. At least, Elrohir thought Elladan had better sense than to lead meerkat into the house. 

The younger twin brushed that thought away. More important things involved waking up (opening his eyes) and _finding_ the obstinate creature that was his brother. 

_Maybe the meerkat got him, too?_

With impossible effort, Elrohir forced his head up and his eyes open. Another groan, a sound of exquisite agony, wrenched itself from dry and cracked lips as his neck gave way and his head imploded. Instinctively, he jerked back to escape the pain and heard a hollow, resounding _crack_ accompanied by a flare of too bright light. But maybe that was just residue from when he first opened his eyes. Valar, why did he feel worse than the time he and Elladan had snuck into their father's wine cellar centuries ago and finished off King Thranduil's gift of Dorwinion wine-- all twelve bottles of it? (He still suspected they had received help at some point from a nameless, unidentified third party who had somehow gotten off unpunished.) 

Pushing past the pain as only an elf (and an extremely stubborn one, at that) is able, Elrohir once again attempted to open his eyes and have a look at his surroundings, some instinct he was not quite aware of, nor wholly appreciative of, turned his head to the right, setting of concussive fireworks in his neck. But, upon exposing his delicate orbs to the world, he found no super-concentrated cohesive light fashioned as a sword waiting to stab his eyeballs into merciless submission while macerating his mind, so he figured he could live with the fireworks-- after all, he was not already dead. 

That accomplished . . . decided . . . settled, Elrohir took a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings: gray walls. Gray ceiling. Gray floor. Metal cuffs. Dark. _Dear Varda._

Elrohir leaned back unconsciously, growing horror widening his eyes and halting his breath. The Slyntari. Shirk. Mercy, where was his brother? 

Panicked, somewhat dazed, hopeful, fearful blue eyes turned further to his right. The featureless wall, dreary as ever, was empty, marred only by the manacles that hung open a little above his direct line-of-sight. 

His brother was gone. 

*~*~*~*~* 

Kalya crouched in the shadow of a rocky outcropping far above the nearly sprawling camp that Shirk had claimed in the Second Age and proved its name well-founded. From her position amid the White Mountains, the various tents and constructs looked like she could pick them up and hold them in the palm of her hand. It was an interesting image. More interesting, was that she could crush them. 

There had been occasions in her short life when she had thoroughly cursed the keen sight granted her by her elven heritage. Now was not one of them. It allowed her to study the camp from this distant vantage where only one set of eyes had a hope of catching her. She studied the layout, picking out what was there, identifying what was new, what had stayed the same. 

The slave quarters were closest to her and easiest to identify. A kind of darkness always seemed to hang about them, like dirt that seeped from the inside, that was never dislodged no matter how recently cleaned, nor how thoroughly. She dismissed them out of hand; Shirk would never place unbroken prisoners with the slaves, nor give them the relative freedom those duties would entail. At least with elves, the danger that they would escape would be too great. Before the end, when their strength was all but gone, he undoubtedly planned to make use of them in similar manner (she could just see him using them as his personal slaves, the sons of his most hated enemy given to his every whim), yet it was too soon for that. They would be elsewhere. 

The Food Pit was still in the same place and used for the same purpose. She suspected, but had never been present to prove the notion, that the elven lord used it as an arena where slaves on a number of concoctions could be made to duel when he got bored. The officers' tents had been moved, half of them removed, but the markings remained the same. They were dispersed among fractionally larger tents that housed more people for the newbies. They were jokingly, some with more malice than others, referred to as Nursery Huts. The youngest and greenest most likely to be killed students were housed in them where it was easiest to replace them and most convenient when they died. They, too, were marked the same as she remembered. And now that they were identified, she could eliminate them from her search. 

The supply tents, whose contents were indicated by subtle color variations-- something that had caused more than one novice to enter a clothing's hold instead of the food stores --stood mostly along the perimeter in corner positions that conventional thought found troublesome but Shirk found useful. It was a simple way to determine who would carry out their orders without comment no matter how pointlessly difficult it seemed; the ones who grumbled on food duty were usually the first to die. The weapons were usually near an officer's tent. Not that she had any need to worry over them. 

More troublesome were the handful of large tents she could not put a purpose to. They were nearly a match for the slave tent, but she knew there were no slaves in them-- Shirk never kept more slaves than his contingent of Slyntari could control, and they were always housed in a single unit. Near as she could tell, there did not seem to be anything in them at all: no tools, supplies, people or acquisitions. What, then, were they for? 

Training? Shirk had never favored such tactics before, but who could say? He was an elf, after all, no matter how twisted. Regardless, her target was not in there. That left the meds and all the underground holds for her to worry about. 

She sighed, vexed, before irritably brushing her hair back from her face, a frown marring her fair features, then reached back to braid the long, dark locks. She would never understand why women insisted on having long hair. It was a bother and a pain to keep on the road and useful for nothing except being yanked around by, but until Shirk was dead she could not risk drawing undo attention by cutting it off. 

She pulled the dark tresses over her shoulder to continue braiding more easily and focused her attention on the camp. Guards were set along the perimeter every three dozen paces or so, excluding the north and west which were buffered by mountain slopes. There the only guards were those set about the deep openings into the mountains; these were far more alert and anxious than their more numerous counterparts, but she suspected that was more because of the entrances they were posted by than any concern that an attack would come from the slopes. Reasonable, but she wondered who Shirk was concerned would attack from the south. 

Kalya tied the braid off then looped the end under the rest of the braid and made another tie about the nape of her neck so the hair formed a loop. Maybe it would stay out of her face now. 

Still, if the cave-dwellers were the only ones standing guard directly around the camp, there had to be spotters up near the caps that gave the peaks their name. The traitor elf was too cautious and experienced to rely on secrecy and seclusion to keep him safe, and she would bet anything the people of Rohan knew something had crept in here. The horselords had never faced attack from this quarter so far as she knew, but any commander worth his salt would still keep at least a casual eye on it, wary for any shadows that might pop out; and if they knew, it was right to say Shirk knew they knew. Still, she had not seen them. Just because she had not seen them, however, did not mean they were not there. Luckily for her, though, the attention of that guard would be focused outward, not inward, so she probably would not have to worry about them. Not yet. 

What she _did_ need to worry about were the patrols that made regular rounds of the mountain slopes, the ones she had actually enjoyed the few times she had been here (mostly because the cold and snow had bother her companions to no end-- another boon of her elven heritage that the cold did not bother her and the snow barely hindered her --and she could amuse herself by teasing them). She wondered if she had never been reprimanded because her fellows had never told Shirk, or if the elf had simply found it amusing. 

The girl shook her head sharply. That was neither helpful nor relevant, and such distraction could prove fatal. _Shirk wants me dead, and if I want to deny him his goals then I have to focus and use what he taught me against him. There will be time to laugh later, if I succeed._ It was easy enough not to think about what would happen if she failed. That was a dark road she had come to accept would be her fate, anyway; time being the only thing in question. 

Success, she knew, would be the real difficulty. Getting in would be only mildly challenging, if that-- she had always been able to come and go as she pleased without their notice, even when they were looking for her. Finding the twins, her purpose for returning to these people she had forsaken, would be more difficult. That would require her to move around the camp without attracting attention, and while she had managed it in the past, there was never any guarantee that she could accomplish that now. It would all depend on how quickly she could find the twins and how closely the Slyntari were looking for intruders. 

Getting out, however, was a different matter entirely. Leaving unnoticed, if it was just herself, would be a manageable endeavor. Leaving unnoticed with prisoners Shirk wanted very much to keep bordered on impossible. She had never before heard of it happening, but she was more than willing to be the first to accomplish it if the fates were kind. 

Movement from the med tent caught her eye, a blur of varied tans against unchanging stone that was out of place. She shifted, leaning forward a bit to get a better view of what was happening, her eyes lit on a familiar figure. One of the neika (Shirk's personal slaves) had just left, a somewhat disgruntled-looking Akin emerging in her-- or was it his? --wake before pushing back into the tent with a nervous excitement that could only mean Shirk was involved. He had a habit of stepping on toes that she had always despised. 

Blue eyes sparkled intently as Kalya debated the likelihood of one of the elves being in the med tent. The Slyntari, generally, did not aid one another when they were injured. Whatever harm they endured was on their own head, and was thus theirs to treat. The med tent was a place where they could have access to the supplies they would need without troubling the rest of their kin. That there were exceptions was a given, though what those exceptions were remained a mystery to all but Shirk himself. It was a sad fact, however, that prisoners often received better medical care, especially if Shirk wanted them to remain alive-- a cruel irony as most of them were also the ones who would prefer to die. 

The former Slyntari chewed her lower lip absently as she scanned the rest of the possibilities, mentally running through what she knew of each hollowed room. No two were exactly alike, some bigger, some smaller, and some better suited to holding disagreeable, stubborn, recalcitrant elves. There were three that were definite possibilities, as far as she could figure, any one of them being cells she would choose if it was her decision (and she had discovered years ago that she and Shirk sometimes shared a disturbingly similar thought pattern when it came to such things). Two of them were even on the near side of the camp, just inside the outer ring of supply tents. 

She settled back, shifting once more into shadow, and watched, her quick eyes noting who went where and how often, recommitting this place she had once had the misfortune to dwell in to memory. Hours passed and the sun sank towards the horizon. Then, when she was satisfied, she slipped away and out of sight of even Shirk's keen gaze. 

There were some preparations she yet needed to make. She would only have one shot at this, and she intended to make it good. More than that: she intended to succeed. 

*~*~*~*~* 

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Shadowfaxgal7: Hm, really close to death sounds good. I think I'm too attached to my characters to actually kill them-- not that Elladan and Elrohir are my characters, but . . . I can dream, right? *g* Ack, I hate that. We don't exactly get much snow or ice down here, but I know I hate it. Feeling the car sliding on the road when you have no control over it is scary. Closest I've come is momentarily hydroplaning on a puddle of water. Lol. I'm glad I'm allright, too. I just wish my car would hurry up and be allright. Grrr. . . . *smiles* Thank you so much. It does my ego so much good to hear. It calms me down when I'm having fits that I can't get my story to work right. Em, will you accept "long" instead of "soon"? *looks hopeful* 

Tychen: lol. Dancing with Dumper trucks. Lol. And it was a dance, really. I even did a twirl. Lol. Oh my, I'm confused. I've refined my Strider again? I'm probably going to kick myself when I understand this, but I don't, so if you'd like to help, I'd be much obliged. The twins, well, I can't seem to stay away from them, so you won't be left in the dark very long (assuming it doesn't take me forever to post again). Hm *evil smile* I can have so much fun with Aragorn. I think it's Legolas' turn to get hurt, though. *frowns* Yes, his turn to get hurt. Any preferences, since I don't have it written yet? Lol. I feel so sorry for Elrond. Really I do. Hm, more Hope? More Estel? If that's an affirmative, you get your wish. *g* More Legolas, too. Not much better next chapter, but the chapter after that should be loverly: I think it shall be nearly all Aragorn and Legolas. Then again, my plans never go as they're supposed to, so we'll see. *g* *closes eyes and chants* I won't take so long this time, I _won't_ take so long this time. . . . 

Grumpy: Still in one piece, mostly. I looked like a cave troll decided to use the driver's side as a punching bag. Hehe. I don't know what it looks like now, since I haven't gotten it back yet. *grumbles unflatteringly about mechanics who take forever* *looks scandalized* You can't take the twins! I'll help them when I'm ready. . . . *g* Sorry your inquiry didn't get immediate results. I wanted to, honest. 

Nerfenherder: I'm sorry about your difficulties with ff.net. It's evil but useful, so it's eccentricies must be put up with. Bother. I'm happy to say the only thing left unwell from my accident is my car. *looks bemused* It should be ready tommorow, though, so I shall cross my fingers and pray nothing goes wrong in the test drive. Is there sufficiently more Legolas and Aragorn? I think it's kind of choppy, really, like the emotions come out of nowhere. But it's kind of hard to make it flow better when I'm switching back and forth with lots of time between what happens one place and the next. What do you think? Lol. Yes, likely they did. And (tada!) Someone is on-hand to help them. *g* Ah, well I must do that, tie them all together. _I_ feel lost if I don't, so I can't imagine how everyone else would feel. *g* Heh. She already made an appearance in this story-- even before this chapter. I just didn't tell you who it was. *blinks* I hope Shirk doesn't figure out Estel is Aragorn, or (more likely) that Strider is Aragorn. Unless he's dead right after. The only reason the dear ranger's still alive is because he doesn't know. Torl . . . is a mystery that must be revealed in time. *g* I'll try to make sure I've posted again before I go to Islands of Adventure May 8th. I _think_ I can do it. No, no, little engine that could: _I know I can, I know I can, I know I can. . . ._


	15. Waking

Hm. I had too much fun with this chapter. Far too much fun. I had it written mid-afternoon on Monday, and it took me till late Wednesday to type it up. I've been proofing it since. You can guess I haven't take much time to study for my AP tests. I'll be regretting it come test-time. Anyway, this chapter is longer than the last by a thousand words. It's also 34 pages long. They simply wouldn't shut up. I think it's all highly amusing, but I'm not sure I wrote it very well, so I'm not sure if _you_ will think it's funny. My ability to type and spell also disappeared sometime recently, so dispite the spell-checker, I may have made some mistakes. I mean, I alway make mistakes, but there might be more than usual. g 

Also, I'm trying to decide what story I want to write next. I have six written up as summaries so I don't forget them. Since I can't decide which one I want to write, I figured I'd let you all decide. I'll only give you actual summaries on some of these if you show an interest in them, otherwise I'm far too fond of surprises. In no particular order (and I _mean_ no particular order), we have 

What If (that's not the title, it's just what I've taken to calling it for my own purposes): an AU that takes place during the trilogy and explores some of the . . . darker possibilities of the War of the Ring. This would include the whole Fellowship. 

(This one has no working title as yet) It's more or less the prequel to this trilogy. But, as the first part is largely based on Cassia's and Sio's works, and this would take place about the same time as those, it's going to fit into the same general timeline but not actually be taken as part of it. The problem with using other people's work as a basis for writing. grins ruefully This takes place early in Legolas' and Aragorn's friendship, the human being about . . . 23? I haven't settled firmly on an age yet. 

Second Chance (working-title) is another AU, and takes place just after the War. I'm not ready to spoil the surprise just yet, but if enough of you ask, I might be pursuaded to give a small explanation. 

But Ada (I'm nearly positive I'm going to use this title) is a young Estel story that came to me while I was baby-sitting. Estel would be somewhere between 5 and 10, I think, but I haven't quite decided yet, and it would be short, single shot. 

(No title) This one would place Estel at about 18, before he's learned of his heritage while out doing "great deeds" with the sons of Elrond. 

(No title) This one would be the next sequel to this story, and will either take place in Rohan or Gondor during his "errantries." I have to come up with a suitable storyline if I am to write this one, though, for Rohan has been done by Sarah and Hannah, and Gondor by Cassia and Sio, and I want to be at least somewhat unique. 

There you have it, the 6 story ideas currently passing through my brain. I beg you choose the one you want to read next. I shall not be writing another story after this one until I have received . . . at least 10 votes for a story. To vote, you can use the title (if it has one) or assign it a number counting down (I'll figure out which one you mean), or identify it by Aragorn's/Estel's age. I think that covers all of them. That should do it.Now that I've done that, though, I've forgotten what else I wanted to say. Hm. . . . 

Oh, yes: because of my Islands of Adventure trip on Saturday and my AP Bio test and AP Psyche test Monday and Tuesday, respectively, it may be longer than a week before I get the next chapter up since I really do need to study and more than likely won't get any writing done until after the tests. The week after brings all sorts of graduation stuff that I'm not looking forward to in the least. Ugh. But that shall also take up my time. Can anyone tell me what Baccalaureate(?) Is like? It's absolutely useless to ask anyone at my school. No body ever seems to know anything. rolls eyes My class is so hoplessly unorganized. 

Anyway, speical notes: Aragorn and Legolas are at a different time than Elladan and Elrohir. They're a day behind unless I've missed my count. I need to go back and make sure. But all the events save theirs are at the same time. I didn't explain that very well. Oh dear. I think you'll get it when you start reading, but feel free to ask for clarification if it's confusing. I did it this way for artistic reasons, and artistry doesn't always allow for understanding. g 

Now, have fun, review, _don't_ forget to vote, and I'll see you again as soon as can be contrived. Responses are at the bottom. smiles brightly****

****

**Chapter 15**

Floating. 

That was the first thing he became aware of; the feeling of having no ties or bonds, no firm holds beneath his feet. It felt like one of those long summer days when he would go down to the lake and relax, letting the sun warmed waters soothe and comfort his body, all cares borne away on the easy lassitude of the day. Just floating. All that was missing was the mating songs of the birds. 

And the sun. 

Darkness was the next thing he was aware of, the darkness one found when standing in a dark room in the middle of the night with the drapes drawn over the windows to block out the moon and the stars and simply closed one's eyes. It was even: no deep or threatening shadows imposing on the easy shade of a moonless night. Here, there was no fear, only comfort. 

He felt like he had been taken, lifted away from something dreadful, and left here; free from pain, discomfort, and sorrow in a paradise few knew of or had ever been allowed to enter. He had never felt this way before, so at peace. Then again, he could not remember much about-- _before_ at all. 

Before did not exist here. 

"That's not fair!" 

_Not fair?_ Confusion curled through him lazily, prodded by that soft, echoing voice that seemed to cry into his ear yet sound from from a long way off. Young, it was, but he knew none so young. Who had cried thus? 

As easily as the confusion came, then, it drifted away, carried as if on a spring breeze, eased as if down a clear, trickling stream. He felt it slip away and did not try to stop it, did not mourn its passing nor try to recapture the feeling. Contentment settled back over him like a warm blanket when winter's chill was harshest. He smiled dreamily as the memory of the voice drifted out of awareness, knowing what it could not and secure in that knowledge: all was fair here. 

"But I want to go hunting, too!" 

Scandalized tones once more cut through the comfortable darkness, slashing it, and he jerked. A frown marred his face, but he did not move. Why would anyone want to go hunting, go traipsing about through mud and rain and snow when they could be here, in bliss? 

His mind provided no answer, and the voice offered no attempt, seemingly content to dissipate back into the shadow from which it had come, and once again the soothing shadow eased away the memory of the words, comforting his ears with silence, and the outburst was no more, not even a memory. But a niggling little point of something, like the light of single star in a field of black sky, yet tickled him, a feeling beyond thought or memory that would not release him back into peaceful oblivion. He twitched. 

"You _promised_!" 

The anguished cry ripped through the empty darkness, stirring it from its peaceful stand, as it vibrated through the land, at once sounding strong and true, then running back to trip over itself. 

A pained twinge cut through him, a sympathetic pang to that which had sounded in his ears and now echoed through his mind, prickling him even as the echo died away. It seemed to fade, stretching and growing smaller like the ripples in a pond after a stone has breached its tranquility. Yet even before that ease could be restored, before the darkness could ease it away from him, another voice echoed through the air, as impossibly familiar as the first. 

"You can't come with us this time, little one. Maybe when you're older." 

Then almost immediately on its heels, before the echoes had a chance to die away, yet perfectly clear and understandable: "I am older. You can't protect me forever." 

He was frowning again, grasping, trying to find in his mind what he knew should be there but remained stubbornly hidden, slipping ever from his grasp. He knew those voices. Instinctively, he opened his eyes. 

The darkness still lay before him, unchanged, but the peace it had held was gone. Tension, a strange kind of vibration against the skin, now curled through it-- excitement. He stared eagerly around him, desperately trying to pierce the gloom, to find where the voices were coming from. He had to find them. 

"Don't hold back, brother!" 

He whirled, thinking the cry had come from behind him, but found only the same empty shadow, devoid of the life he sought. Frustration snaked through him, tightening his jaw and thinning his lips till they pressed into a thin line. 

"I didn't hold back!" the other voice retorted, sounding miffed, and he spun again, quick as he could in case he had missed them the last time. But no-- speed lent no new revelations. Frustration gave way to irritation. 

Laughter reached him, tinny through the echo, and sly amusement twined through the words. "I see. So I beat you with superior skill-- the mighty Elf brought down by the lowly Man." 

He peered hard into the nothingness of his prison, trying stubbornly to burn a hole in this cursed shade that held nothing of virtue. He focused upon a single spot and glared with the full force of his ire, tempted sorely to spout a few scathing curses to unfading dark. He would not stay here, would not remain a prisoner here, bound here, cut off from those-- 

Suddenly a light exploded, bursting from the focus of his gaze and rushing out, barreling toward him with the speed of an arrow and the inexorable doom of a mountain collapsing upon its foundation. True, blinding, white light lanced out at him, expanding like one of Mithrandir's fireworks, and he could do nothing but stand. 

He clenched his eyes tight shut as the explosion reached him, bracing, tensing, expecting burning fire, searing flame-- 

And felt nothing but a rush of warm air against his face, fingering through his hair. 

A snort touched his ears, a mixture of amusement and scorn. "You are not yet so good, young one." 

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Familiar land appeared before him: open grasslands backed by stands of trees, dropping away to the river before winding back up the sloped valley wall. Birds sang happily, and critters of all kinds meandered about the land, passing to one place and then another, darting as their whims led them. But that was out there. More immediately, he found Elrohir and Estel, both before him with swords in their hands, facing each other separated by roughly half a dozen feet. 

His twin was dressed simply, his hair still pulled back though bits were beginning to come free, nearly the only sign of his recent exertions save also a bit of color high on his cheeks. Estel had a wide grin on his face that did nothing for his appearance (worked wonders if he was trying to look mad, though). Dirt from a tumble on the ground clung in creases on his dark clothes (not that they really looked any different from when the boy claimed they were clean), and sweat beaded his face and slicked his hair which clung valiantly to his face like a scared child to his mother. 

Estel snorted a strangled laugh. "Come now, brother; don't be like that! If you did not hold back, I beat you fair and square! Admit your defeat gracefully." 

"One victory does not make you invincible," Elrohir shot back, standing with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest, sword still dangling loosely form his fingers. 

"Ai!" the human exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Truly, you are a sore loser!" 

"I am not." 

"You are! Elladan, tell him." 

He jerked at being addressed directly, startled despite himself because neither had shown any indication of noting his presence. Estel turned to look at him, gesturing helplessly at the younger twin. The elder recovered quickly from his surprise, however, and smirked at his mirror-image. "You are." 

Elrohir's jaw dropped. "You cannot take his side, brother! That's not fair!" 

The laughter Estel had held back before came bubbling out of him like water from a spring. He could barely hold it back enough to taunt, "What's fair? The two of you against little old me? When Elves are supposed to be naturally superior? No wonder Orcs fear you so, El!" Then laughter choked off whatever else he might have said, likely for the best. 

Elrohir exchanged a glance with Elladan, his disapproving frown ruined somewhat by the spasms that plagued his lips as he tried to hold back his laughter. Elladan could see that great effort went into not laughing, but none of that strain made it into his voice when spoke. "You hear that, brother? No respect among the youth these days." 

"No brains among the wise," the human taunted immediately. 

Elrohir lunged for the laughing young man but was thwarted as one brother moved into his way and the other out of it. Elladan clasped his twin's shoulders and said, "Easy, my brother. We can't just rush him. Think of how messy that would be." More laughter behind him forced him to give into the smile he was holding back. "We need to approach this as Elves, not common Men." 

"You'd still need clubs and pitchforks for that. Common Men have standards, you know." 

Elrohir's smile matched his own. "Of course, my dear brother. Our revenge must have style." 

Two pairs of identical blue eyes turned to focus on the young man across the pitch from them. His smile seemed to freeze as he registered their gaze. He stood very still as his eyes darted back and forth between them. He reminded the brothers very much of a deer just scenting danger before it broke into a run. Then the youth unfroze. He smiled uneasily and backed up a half step, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "Wonderful day, isn't it?" he inquired inanely. 

"Why don't you make this easy, little brother, and come here," Elrohir suggested. 

"We may even be persuaded to mercy if you come quietly," Elladan felt inclined to add. 

Estel continued to back up. "Right. I'm going to simply walk over and turn myself in to you orcs," he said, his eyes darting around quickly. He took off running a second before the twins did, his instincts apparently sharper than his brains. "You can't kill me!" he called back over his shoulder, whether trying to remind the twins or reassure himself, it was difficult to tell. "Ada would have your hide!" 

"Effort well spent," Elrohir mumbled, loud enough for the human to hear. 

They raced away across the practice pitch, past the equipment shed and through the fringes of the forest. Elladan was surprised at how fast Estel had gotten, how nimble he was at running through the woods. Grasping tree limbs, covered in vibrant green leaves, rushed past them. Then Estel broke right, turning unexpectedly towards the house and sprinting over open land. The twins followed suit, gaining slower than they would have liked on their quarry, but still gaining. 

Neither were sure exactly where Estel was going until they rounded a corner behind him and found themselves in the gardens. The plants, shrubs, and trees were all in bloom, creating a tidal wave of color that was easy to get lost in if you were inexperienced. The twins were anything but. 

Elladan and Elrohir slowed fractionally, needing the brief respite to catch sight of their brother again having lost sight of him when he turned the corner, before lighting after him with renewed energy. The boy was fast, no doubt, but he could not outrun an elf indefinitely. His eyes glowed with the joy of the hunt. It had been so long since they had had the time and freedom to just have fun, to tease and chase and challenge each other. It felt good. 

They split up slightly as they ran, drifting to opposite sides of their little brother's trail so they were bracketing him instead of following him, running with effortless grace as the distance continued to drop between them, time eating away at the lead the human had gained upon entering the garden. The wind whistled past his ears. His eyes remained locked on the dark-clad form of the human. A smile, predatory in nature, graced his face. 

Then they pounced. 

Elrohir hit first, jumping from the foliage and slamming into the young man's upper back, grabbing him and twisting so they crashed down on their sides. Both continued rolling, but Estel altered his roll and Elrohir lost his grip. The elf went one way and the human went the other-- right towards him. 

Estel pushed himself up onto his knees, preparing to start running again, and Elladan jumped on him, his weight landing on the young man's back. His arms buckled, then collapsed, and his knees slid out from under him, dropping the human to the ground. He _whoofed_ as his air was forced from his lungs beneath Elladan's weight. Elrohir plopped down next to him, and together the twins rolled the youth onto his back before he could recover enough to fight back and pinned him there. He struggled slightly in their grip, but could get no leverage. Each twin half-sat on one of his legs and pinned an arm beside him. 

They grinned down at him devilishly as he stared back with wide eyes. Elladan could practically see his mind spinning as he sought a way to escape. His eyes closed fractionally as he found none, but tension still wound through his frame-- prepared should an opportunity arise, but resigned to not finding one. 

The boy forced a cheerful smile. "Ah, there, now you caught me. You can let go now." 

Elrohir and Elladan chuckled lowly. "No; I don't think so, little brother." 

"It doesn't work that way." 

"Sure it does," Estel countered, his voice childishly bright, a tone fabricated just for them. "You caught me. Now you have to let me go so we can do it again." He smiled with the kind of simple pleasure a child feels upon proving themselves to their elders. 

For a moment Elladan was so reminded of the eight-year-old they had chased laughing through the forest that he was surprised at the bulk of the being beneath him. He had to blink to chase away the brightly innocent eyes that smiled back at him from a past that was long gone. The boy he had helped raise was no longer the carefree child he had once been. Too much had happened to change that. His eyes-- 

"Or not. To the victors go the spoils, Estel," Elrohir taunted. "You know what that means?" 

The young man blinked at him, obviously well aware of the answer but hoping to gain a respite if he offered no response. 

Elladan grinned. "It means you're ours, little human--" 

"Little?" Estel interrupted, scowling, somewhere between amused and indignant. "I'm not--" 

Elrohir increased the pressure on the lad's arm, drawing his attention back onto the other elf. "We've got you and there's no one to help you now." 

"Is that so, Elrohir?" 

The twins jumped and whirled, automatically releasing their younger brother as if burned as they turned to face the deep, quiet, _familiar_ voice that had interrupted them. 

"Hello, Ada," Estel greeted happily. 

Six foot four inches of imposing robe-clad strength confronted him, and caught red-handed abusing their little brother, even now that the human was grown, he could only stare at the elven lord in wide-eyed silence. One eyebrow raised expectantly. 

"Ada," he greeted weakly. Elrohir could not stir himself to move. 

"I trust I am not interrupting anything," he continued quietly, his pointed glances telling the twins in no uncertain terms that, should he find them in similar pursuit later, they would regret it for years to come. 

Elladan shook his head. "No, Ada. Nothing." 

"Estel?" The elder twin thought he could detect a hint of amusement in that inquiry. 

The human glanced at his brothers before replying. "I think everything's fine, now, Ada. Thank you for asking." 

"Behave," he ordered, leveling them a stern glare. 

"Yes, Ada," they chorused. Elladan felt like he was a hundred years old again. 

The elven lord watched them a moment longer, his gaze measuring, before nodding and walking away. He melted into the surrounding brush as quickly as he had come, and as silently. Elladan had the uncomfortable feeling of having been shoved lightly while standing on a narrow ledge, his balance tossed but not quite lost. Not yet. 

He turned to look at his youngest brother. The human had sat up now and was crouched roughly two paces away. A small smile curled his lips, a pale shadow of the laughter that danced in his eyes. "I got you" they seemed to say, and Elladan could not begrudge him that point at all. He had gotten them good, had led them exactly where he wanted them, and they had never noticed. He had grown beyond them without their realizing. He shook his head inwardly, pleased in spite of himself. 

He glared at him half-heartedly. "How did you know Ada would be here?" he asked finally, shifting so that he sat more comfortably upon the ground, conceding his defeat with more grace than Elrohir had been willing to earlier. Elrohir quietly followed suit, watching the human intently. 

Estel's eye narrowed, perhaps debating whether or not his brothers were truly finished trying to attack him. Silver eyes searched blue, then the boy also took a more comfortable seat on the forest floor, apparently deciding the twins were genuine. His smile widened, became smug. "Simple, really," he declared nonchalantly. "For those who listen." 

"We listen!" Elrohir contradicted indignantly. 

"Then you heard Ada say he would be in the gardens after first meal if anyone needed him?" 

The younger twin's lips pursed, able to claim no such thing but unwilling to admit it to the young one. He glanced at Elladan. The elder could claim no such knowledge, either, but he thought he might remember something to that effect, now that his attention had been drawn to it, when Elrond and Glorfindel had walked out together. He shrugged and smiled at his human brother. "Looks like you won for once, baby brother. What do you want to do now?" 

Irritation (perhaps at the term "baby") passed briefly over the ranger's face, there and gone like a cloud passing before the sun. Silver eyes gazed thoughtfully at the foliage, through it, as he considered his answer. "Well. . . ." His head tilted to the side and he glanced at the elves slyly from the corners of his eyes. "I don't know about you perfect elves, but it seems to me it's getting somewhat hot here. What do you think?" 

"That you're feeling things," Elrohir retorted immediately, leaning back on his elbows. "Elves don't feel the elements, Estel." 

"Rather humid, too," the young man continued, ignoring his brother. "Hot and humid. Typical summer weather, the kind of weather that feels like its smothering you and you want to simply lie around and do nothing, languishing in the shade. . . ." 

"Or cooling off in the blissfully refreshing chill of the a certain lake conveniently placed," Elladan finished knowingly, looking to his twin with a wide smile. 

Slowly, a matching smile appeared on Elrohir's face. He nodded once. "Estel: I do believe that's the best idea you've had all year." 

The human glared at him good-naturedly, retorting dryly, "And your plans are so much better." 

"Hush, child," he remonstrated, winning a laugh. 

"So the lake?" Elladan prompted with a grin, laughing inwardly at his twin's expense. 

Elrohir grinned ruefully as Estel chuckled. "The lake," he confirmed. 

It was dusk. He hated dusk. 

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the western mountains, only the barest sliver of orange peaking over them, looking for all the world like a misplaced orange slice-- not that he could turn around and look at it. 

He glared out over the twisted, uneven, crumbling landscape that dropped away in sharp canals and shallow valleys before him, interrupted with dry, dead-looking bracken trees. He shuddered, hunching inside his cloak and tucking his hands inside the flowing sleeves, as an unbearably chill wind sliced past him. His dark hair slipped about his face but he ignored it in favor of staying as warm as possible. Winter in the mountains. It just _had_ to be winter. No matter how cold it became during the day, it always got colder as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the winds took perverse pleasure in coming out to play when there was nothing to chase away their bite. He was sure of it. 

The ferns rustled, scraping lightly against each other, and the already long shadows that stretched out before him danced under that icy touch, reveling, seeming to laugh at his discomfort, feeling nothing of it. He shivered again, then straightened. 

Intent eyes scanned over the land before him, tracking methodically from one side to the other. A slight, perplexed frown drew furrows over his brow. He thought he had seen movement, sensed it at least; something other than the normal shiftings that plagued the sentry's watch, something that put him on his guard. Yet there was nothing. Nothing moved. He wished he had a torch. 

_CRASH!_

He jumped, his hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword as he turned. More crashes followed the first, a tinkling cascade that nearly made him wince in sympathy for the poor souls who would catch hell's fury for it. His gaze found the scene just as the guards began yelling. The _snap-crack_ of whips could be heard though he could not see them through the gloom. They lashed the slaves from a circle as a half-dozen bodies scrambled to pick up what they had dropped, fluttering frantically as pain rained down on their heads, half jumping back at every _snap_. 

Past them, the main fire was just being kindled, and he caught sight of one of the newbies coming towards him with a torch. The youth grinned at the chaos as he passed, and the elder turned back to his watch with a snort of disgust, scanning the rocks by habit. 

A hint of movement, more sensed than seen, made him turn quickly. But just as before, he saw nothing. The shadows were deep and still. Nothing moved within them-- nothing his eyes could detect, at any rate. Yet he knew from experience that that did not always mean nothing was there. 

When the kid walked up next to him, he took the torch without looking away, and thrust it forward, chasing away some of the darkness that hovered between him and the next guard, the light casting hard shadows in the rise that cracked away from his section of land. He could see. . . . 

Nothing. 

The uneven crevices held nothing but shadow; no bodies, no strange creatures, just more darkness. Not quite at ease, he nevertheless looked away, scanning the area once more before turning back towards the cold lands before him, wordlessly passing the torch back off to the boy. For once the child took it without question. Maybe the lad was growing some brains. He doubted it. 

The man resisted the urge to look behind him again, to check the shadows to his left once more when there had been nothing there the first time. He refused to show such nerves to the upstart he had been saddled with, but he could not force his unease to go away. It gnawed mercilessly at the back of his mind as he stared out into the night. Damn this cursed place! 

Behind him, barely three feet away, a shadow rose from the ground and slipped further into the camp. 

Laughter rang through the air like the clear tones of a trumpet calling weary soldiers home in triumph. 

Elladan glared between his two laughing brothers, his efforts seeming only to incite their hilarity (which was what he was aiming for, no matter that his expression would have one thinking the opposite-- an elf is always successful, after all). Water dripped down his face, beading at his chin and ears, and his now water-logged hair hung in clumps across this shoulders-- neither of which were responsible for his frown. The point of swimming, after all, was to get wet. It was the mud that slithered down with the water that he objected to. 

Superiorly, he ignored his brothers and carefully wiped his face, the motions slow and somewhat exaggerated. The laughter from his younger brothers even increased, as expected, and grim satisfaction tingled through him. He tested out the substance left in his hair and grimaced at its feel. He and Elrohir may no be so particular about their appearance as their Mirkwood friend, but that did not mean they took so little care of their hair as Estel. He shot another angry glare at the human in question. 

The young man stopped laughing long enough to grin at him infuriatingly. He would have taken his revenge then and there, better intentions be damned, had he not had more important things to do. 

With a haughty sniff that nearly cost Estel and Elrohir their balance (they were laughing so hard they could hardly stand now), he pulled his legs up and plunged beneath the water, feeling its crisp freshness rush up to cover his head, the contrast between the temperature of his skin and the temperature of the water creating a delightful tingle. His hair floated up around him and he pulled out the leather thong that held his hair back before running his fingers quickly back and forth through it, dislodging the last of the dirt that sullied it. When he was satisfied it was gone, he stood back up. 

He blinked to clear the water from his eyes and ran his hands back over his head, brushing the excess water from the strands and slicking the hair back at the same time. He frowned, freezing mid motion, as he took in his surroundings once more. The water was calm once more, save for where he had just disturbed it, and the shores were empty. Quiet he had not expected engulfed the area, and he looked to Elrohir's widely grinning face to explain this unexpected turn of events. "Where's Estel?" 

The other's smile widened nearly to bursting as he stepped closer to his twin. "Hiding, I imagine. He seems to have more sense than we gave him credit for." 

Elladan smirked and finished re-securing his hair. "You mean there's still some we haven't knocked out him yet?" 

"No," Elrohir replied. "Rather, I think he's had so much sense knocked out of him, someone finally managed to knock some back in." 

"I bet Legolas," the elder chimed. Twin eyes met and they both burst out laughing. Then a wicked gleam sparked to life in Elladan's eyes. Without warning, he struck out, shoving Elrohir backwards into the water. The younger twin yelped, his eyes going wide as he splashed in the lake, his hands going straight through the surface instead of catching him. He emerged moments later, spluttering, to find a smirk on Elladan's face and a familiar hard glint in his eyes that had rarely been leveled against him. 

The younger twin glared at his brother. "What was that for?" 

"I thought it was rather tame, considering the alternative," Elladan replied. 

"What--" But Elrohir bit that question off before it could get him in trouble. He had lived with Elladan too long not to know what would happen. Besides, there was something else he needed to find out. "What did I do?" 

"Do? Who said you did anything?" 

"But then. . . ." The perplexed frown melted into something closer to horror as his brother's look and actions finally clicked into place. His gaze sought out matching blue eyes for confirmation of his conclusion. 

The smirk became a wicked grin. "Traitor," Elladan hissed. 

Elrohir did not move. 

"And now," he continued, stepping forward, "it's just you, and me." 

Elrohir took a step back. "It's not my fault!" he exclaimed hastily, raising his hands defensively. 

"No?" Elladan asked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. 

"No," Elrohir assured, even being so bold as to hold his ground when Elladan took another step forward. "It was Estel's fault. He bewitched me!" 

That was too much. He dropped his head to hide his amusement, and half slid under the water to keep from laughing. He shook his head as he stood back up, his eyes clearly showing his mirth though his voice remained level. "That's wretched of you, brother, to blame your own shortcomings on a poor, helpless, guileless, defenseless little human child that looks up to you and respects you no matter if you actually deserve it or not." 

Elrohir was caught somewhere between amusement and indignation. He shook his head slightly. He remembered the original from years ago, and had to admit Elladan captured their father's tone and look nearly perfectly; which made it all the more entertaining to hear it now. "How uncourteous of you, Elladan," he chided, his laughter only visible in his eyes, "not to accept my words. Would I lie to you? We have long known that Human has resources beyond what it usual for his kind. How else could he have so misled father, one so well known for his wisdom?" 

Elladan's lips twitched. "My trust of you notwithstanding, it is still impardonable for you to place the blame for your misdemeanors on your little brother, no matter what he has done. I certainly would not do so." 

"Then you're saying you believe me?" 

"That Estel made you do it? No." 

"But--" 

"That Estel bewitched you. . . ." His voice trailed off, wavering slightly, as he tried not to dissolve into disgracing giggles, his lips twitching helplessly in his struggle. He took a deep breath. "Perhaps. For how else could there be so many Elves who like him? He must have bewitched them all!" 

"That," Elrohir began, only to stop as his voice gave out on him. He cleared his throat. "That is a lofty achievement brother, especially for a human. You are, after all, speaking of all the Elves in Rivendell--" 

"Hardly a small number, I know." 

"--the mighty Slayer of Balrogs among them--" 

"Truly astonishing." 

"--and a fair number of Mirkwood's warriors, people, populace--" 

"Always knew they were touched in the head." 

"King Thranduil among them," Elrohir finished, grinning openly. 

"And that is the seller, is not?" Elladan prompted. "The proof we need. For truly something foul must be at work if the intractable King of Mirkwood, legendary mistruster of Humans, has placed such faith in Estel as to deem him a worthy friend of the Precious Prince of Mirkwood." Elladan was impressed with himself, quite proud that he had not only managed not to burst out laughing while saying all that, but also managed to sound quite earnest. 

Elrohir, also, looked impressed. "You raise a valid point, my brother." 

"Indeed, I do." It escaped neither of them that they had switched sides on the issue, and it did not bother either of them at all. "But how shall we fix the situation? Ada would never let us harm him under his roof; he is under his spell, after all." 

"True. I don't suppose we could give him to the traders, could we?" Elrohir asked. 

"Would the traders take him?" 

"He could bewitch them same as us," the younger pointed out. 

"I suppose that is true," Elladan admitted. Now that they were fully engrossed in the argument, it was easy to keep from laughing. Their minds were as fully engaged in the debate as if they were hunting orc. Anyone who saw them would have thought them quite serious. _Estel could not have caught us in one of our arguments, could he?_ But he did not want to dwell on that. It had been too long since there were no dark thoughts to plague his mind. "But suppose it only works on Elves." 

"I believe some of the ladies in Strayton find him quite handsome," Elrohir revealed slyly. 

"Truly?" the elder prompted, a touch surprised by this news as he had heard nothing of it. 

"'Roguish charm,' I believe they called it," Elrohir said, grinning. "So there _is_ something alluring about his filthy appearance, little though we can see it." 

Elladan laughed lightly. "I suppose he does not need to bewitch humans, then." 

"Or human females, at least." 

"True. Humans always do seem to want what is worst for them." 

"It is true, brother," Elrohir agreed soberly. A moment of silence passed between them, the elven twins apparently contemplating the shortcomings of the human race. Elrohir grazed his hand over the surface of the lake and took a moment to watch the ripples. 

Elladan watched, too, then said, "But suppose he can repel them." 

"We already know he can do that, El." 

"Quite true. His stench would be enough to repel anyone, but if it were just that the humans could still be persuaded to take him with them with the right . . . persuasion. I mean, what if the same bewitchment that lures Elves could be used to repulse Men?" 

"That would be troubling, indeed," Elrohir admitted, frowning slightly as he worked out his reply. "But the Rangers seem to have no trouble. Surely that is proof?" 

"No, indeed, my brother. He wants to be with the Rangers. He would not repel someone he wants to be with." 

"Hm. He does not want to be with Orcs," the younger elf observed. 

Elladan grimaced. "Orcs are related to Elves, El; no matter how vile an admission, we cannot dismiss it." 

"But surely if he wished to repel the Orcs, he would. That he does not can only mean he is incapable. And if he cannot choose to repel Orcs, then he cannot choose to repel humans, either." 

"A valid point." 

"Thank you." 

They fell silent again, cocking their heads to listen to their surroundings. Birdsong drifted to their ears, carried on the warm breeze. No footsteps accompanied it. The last thing they wanted was for Estel to overhear them, think they were serious, and end up hurt-- and not just because Lord Elrond would have their hides for it. Elladan remembered all too clearly how many times they had had to comfort the boy because he had believed himself to be unloved; he had no wish to inflict that pain on him again, simply for their amusement. 

Satisfied they were not going to be overheard, Elladan spoke again. "But do you think the traders would truly be able to take him and keep him from returning if he did not wish to go?" 

"Do you think they would not?" 

"Rangers are said to be wily and difficult to hold on to-- Estel more so than most." 

"Very true," Elrohir agreed. Idly, he traced one of his fingers through graceful patterns over the surface of the water. "I suppose the traders are out, then, for we could not risk him coming back. I suppose taking him out somewhere and leaving him is also out of the question?" 

"Unless we could find a way to make sure he could not return." 

Elrohir pursed his lips. "Trap him in a mine?" 

"Father would hear of it." 

"Take him to the mountains?" 

"And keep him from returning, how?" 

"Well, he attracts Orcs by the dozen." 

"And manages to survive them," Elladan reminded his brother. 

"He has help." 

"And if he somehow got help? Legolas is just as likely to show up as not. The danger would draw him. I think, mayhap, that he is attracted to Orcs; and that is why, when they are together, they can never escape them. How could they, when Estel attracts them and Legolas is drawn to them?" 

"A viable theory, my brother," Elrohir answered with a laugh. "I suppose we could pin his feet." 

Elladan snorted. "Pin his feet?" he demanded. "That would do no good. He would still have his hands!" 

"We could pin them, too," 

"He is grown, brother, loathe though I am to admit it. It would be a simple task to remove them. Then he would not only come back, but he would be injured, too, and probably ill. That would not do." 

"No, indeed. I don't suppose we could just kill him?" 

Elladan looked up, meeting Elrohir's gaze as they both seemed to consider it. Each could see the other picturing it in their head, mentally executing the foul deed. Both shuddered. 

"Nah!" they chorused. 

"I would not be able to do it," Elladan continued mournfully. 

"Nor would I," Elrohir echoed. "I fear he has already worked his magic on us." 

"Just so." Elladan looked amused. "Speaking of which, shouldn't we go find him?" He looked around. 

"Why?" the younger asked. "He's a big boy; you said so yourself." 

"Quite true," he agreed with a sigh before turning to look at his brother with a wicked grin. "You know what that means? It's just you, and me, and you know what you are?" 

Elrohir stared at him a moment, apparently disturbed by the toothy grin his brother was favoring him with. He licked his lips. "You know, on second thought, I think it would be a very good idea to go find our little brother. He finds so much trouble, after all, and he has been gone a very long time. . . ." 

Elladan nodded solemnly, but could not hide his amusement. "A good idea, my brother. Good thing you thought of it." 

Elrohir shook his head, chuckling, and climbed out of the pool, Elladan close behind. They squeezed excess water out of their hair as they walked, then dried off with towels one of the servants had brought out and slipped their shirts on. The sun still shone high in the sky. They glanced around them curiously. 

Elladan tipped his head, glancing sidelong at his twin. "So. Where should we start looking?" 

The last of the sun had fled behind the mountains. Around the camp, fires were being lit, working their way out from the main fire in the center of the camp to the perimeter fires that burned just behind the guards. 

Akin watched the yellowish-orange light flare up and chase away the darkness of night from the entrance to the med tent, her cool gaze watching the activity with indifference. It was the same routine as had even been and of little concern to her. Even if she died, the routine would still go on; someone would replace her and the fires would still be lit. When the fires on her level burned, their glow seeping to illuminate the inside of her haunt, she turned and walked silently back inside. 

Bare-frame cots were set up at intervals around the sparse interior. Shelves and tables held herbs, bowls with water, and mortal with pestle for grinding along with various other utensils for healing. Currently, some of them were being used. 

Her wandering gaze took in the three occupied beds at the far end of the tent, various supplies strewn on the light tables nearest them. One of the occupants, Virgil, had a busted knee, the result of too few brains dealing with prisoners willing and able to fight back. The other, and one of the more experienced in the group, had taken a fall down the mountainside during patrol, cutting his head and breaking his arm, twisting his leg. The last was a novice and the one she had the least sympathy for. Too much drink with too little brains and a temper he had no control of when sober had combined with too little skill to land him with her, and she was only to glad to kick him back out. 

The woman stopped beside his cot. The kid lay on his back with his arm thrown over his face to hide his eyes from the light. She glanced at the table, then stepped closer and shifted lightly through its contents: antiseptics, pads, gauze, the leftovers and waste scattered carelessly. Annoyance sharpened the set of her mouth, and she ignored the splatters of blood to touch a bottle that stood among the trash. She tilted it to read what it was but found no label, the trademark symbol of the maker scratched off. Upon smelling it, however, she stiffened. 

The bottle _thunked_ dully as it hit the table, the healer taking no care to put it down carefully, and Virgil jerked from his light, pain-filled doze. His dark eyes looked on the healer, noting the fire that had kindled in her gaze, and he sat up, quietly gathering his things. 

Akin glared at the boy, fury and disgust wending through her. He had brought alcohol into her tent. Alcohol had landed him in her care and he had the gall to bring it with him, to get even more drunk than he had been already? He was going to wish his opponent had killed him instead of sparring him come morning. She would make sure of it. Her lips tightened, pressing into a thin, bloodless line. Without warning, she raised her foot and brought it down hard on the side of the cot. 

The flimsy construct cracked ominously and overbalanced, dropping the youth unceremoniously to the floor. His hand struck the table as he fell, knocking it away to crash loudly against the ground and scattering its contents. The bottle smashed, flinging glass shards in every direction and releasing the contents still held within. The boy's head hitting the floor resounded with a dull _thunk_ similar to the whiskey bottle when it had struck the table. Her eyes narrowed. She had not imagined there was anything _in_ his head. _Only one way to find out_, she thought, but that was not her decision to make. 

The youth's head jerked back up after its abrupt meeting with the floor, his eyes flying open. Almost immediately, he groaned, his hand reaching gingerly for his head, whether because of the hangover he undoubtedly had or the concussion he might have just gained, she could not tell. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head sink back to the floor, his body relaxing once more as if nothing had happened. 

Her eyes narrowed further, this time in anger, but she kept her ire in check. Gentler than she would have liked (but firmly enough to get his attention), she nudged him with the toe of her boot, rocking his body back and forth. His head lolled from side to side like a rag doll's, and her disgust for him reached new levels. Slowly, his eyes flickered open. 

"Get up, boy," she ordered, her voice low and stern. 

He did not answer, merely groaned again, and rolled further over as if to go back to sleep. She nudged him again, catching him in the ribs with a good deal more force than the first time. Her anger came through in her voice when next she spoke, but she still did not yell. "Get up, brainless pig, or I shall have you thrown in with the slaves! See what a bit of tender loving care will do to your ability to follow orders." 

It was amazing what threatening to take away one's freedom can do to their cooperativity. Faster than the boy probably would have believed possible for his condition, he was wide awake and on his feet. He stood before her at attention, swaying slightly where he stood, his eyes glazed and fixed well over her head. Messily done bandages could be seen on his arms and chest. A bruise circled his eye. It would be brilliant come morning. 

She nodded once, sharply. "Get to your barrack, boy." He snapped a salute and started to leave. "And, boy?" she called before he could leave, halting him in his wavery tracks. "Report to Nirt tomorrow morning for you punishment. Then come here. For clean-up detail. Understood?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She heard him leave the moment she looked away. Her gaze traveled back over the room and lit on Virgil, who stood at the foot of his bed, balanced on one foot with a wad of bandages clutched tightly to his chest. He bowed awkwardly with a murmur of "my lady," then left as quickly as his injured leg would let him. 

Akin took a deep breath, held it for five counts, then let it out slowly, releasing the tension that had crept in with her anger. Once again clam and relaxed, she crossed to the elder's cot. Jaret lay peacefully, his sleep undisturbed by the clamor of a few moments ago. That was only to be expected, though, for she had drugged him herself a few hours past so he could get some undisturbed rest. Now, however, it was time for him to return to his own tent. 

Delicately, she picked up a small bottle and removed the cork from the top. She deftly waved it under his nose, making the man jerk, and bleary gray-green eyes slowly blinked open. The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. "The sun is set, my friend. You will be more comfortable in your own bed." 

Jaret closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side. He paused and rubbed at his eyes, giving her a wry grin. "So thoughtful, my dear." 

"Would you like another sleeping potion?" 

"No." He shook his head and she watched Jaret leave without comment, his steps steady despite the injury to his leg and the concussion he had suffered which made his balance suspect. He was the only person she knew of who could walk and talk coherently while still under the effects of a sleep potion. One day, she would discover how he did it; but right now she had other things to worry about. One of them entered before she had a chance to move. 

Dane was one of those wonderfully strange people whose life seemed to be their job. Any task he was given, no matter how mundane or momentous, was completed quickly and flawlessly, his attention to detail a commander's dream. He performed perfectly; so perfectly, in fact, that his perfection nearly became a weakness: he could complete any task he was given, but he could never ascend to greatness because he could not adapt. He bowed deeply, then waited for his first task. 

She smiled ironically. "Clean up this mess," she ordered, then walked over to the only occupied cot in the whole tent as the man moved to comply. This one was separated from the others by a series of curtains arrayed to create what amounted to another room. Once behind it, you could see no one and no one could see you. This bed was more permanent than the others: sturdier. Shackles were hooked to the floor so the occupant could be held in place. Currently, that occupant was a dark-haired elf with a noble face. 

The woman leaned over him to check his stitches, pealing away the bandages that hid her artwork and ignoring the numerous bruises that decorated the pale flesh. She had been told to save him, to treat his lung and ribs, and nothing else. Now that her task was done, there was nothing left to concern her with him. When she was satisfied her stitches still held, she let the bandages fall back and picked up a basin and sponge. Carefully, she removed the bandages completely and sponged the elf's chest, lightly grazing the close packed stitches. Infection was one thing she did not want to have to deal with. The sooner he recovered, then sooner he was off her hands. 

Sudden silence from the other room brought her head up and stilled her hand. Frozen, she listened, straining to hear the tell-tale patter of Dane's feet as he moved about the room or the low rustle of items being moved about. She listened hard but neither sound reached her ears, only silence. 

Akin looked down at the elf, studying him for a moment before dismissing him. She stood and placed the basin and sponge down, then pulled a dagger from the holster strapped to her thigh. She held it easily, the art of killing just as familiar to her as the art of healing, and more natural. Cautiously, she eased past the concealing fabric. 

The first thing she noticed was that Dane's task was not done. The overturned cot and table had been righted and restored to their original order; the bowl that had held an antiseptic rested once more upon the wooden surface, along with the bandages; the blood that had dripped here and there was gone, the rag used for the purpose lying on the table with the soiled bandages. But the glass from the whiskey bottle lay half-gathered on the floor, apparently abandoned, and the various medicines were not returned to their rightful spaces, still scattered about the tent. Dane was nowhere to be seen. 

On guard, she continued forward, scanning her surroundings constantly with trained alertness. Someone was here; she knew it. She could feel it. Shadows hung throughout the room, cast by the many objects that littered it, plenty of those large and deep enough to hide an intruder. That old excitement, that hum when danger was near, reawoke insider her. It banished the notion of calling for help before it was even considered. Too long had she stayed behind to care for the injured; too long had she been held back, cursed by her skills in a little-needed vocation; too long had others taken the glory that was rightly hers. Now she would catch the being fool enough to attack them in their home and prove to her fellows that she was still a warrior. 

She stepped forward, intent on seeing around the supply shelf, a human-like shadow catching her attention. Her eyes narrowed and she raised her dagger higher, prepared to strike. When she stepped around the obstruction, however, she froze. She had not expected to find Dane, propped against the wall, his eyes staring sightless and glassy at a space just past her shoulder. His head tilted at an odd angle; his arms were spread out, laying limply beside him. 

She blinked at him, unconsciously lowering her blade. It took her a moment to figure out how he had died, thrown by the lack of blood. Then she realized his neck was broken, snapped from close quarters. His attacker had managed to sneak up behind him, get right up next to him without his knowing, and snap his neck before he had a chance to cry out or fight back. A chill shuddered down her spine. 

Something cold pressed against her neck and a hand clamped down tightly over her mouth. Too late, she realized that she had walked straight into a trap; that Dane had not been hidden so she would not find him, but so she would. Then fire drew across her neck, biting sharply, and liquid warmth ran down her neck, her free hand automatically coming up to stem the tide. Blood cascaded over her fingers. She felt her life's sustenance flow out of her. With the last of her strength, she thrust the dagger backwards, hoping to strike flesh, but her hand was caught and a voice whispered in her ear, dark amusement lacing the tone. 

"Now, now, Akin. That's no way for the dead to behave." 

She knew that voice. Her eyes widened in shock; her body tensed. 

Then all went dark. 

Gradually, he became aware. The darkness that held him in peaceful oblivion slowly released its hold. He could hear sounds: the popping crackle of a fire, the steps of a horse moving to better ground, the _chomp-chomp_ of the large creature eating, the quiet steps of something much lighter. He entertained himself with figuring out what they were and meant while reveling in the warmth that encased him. It had been a long time since he felt this comfortable. He could just lie here forever. 

The light steps moved closer, bringing with them a sense of presence, and stopped just past him. He could hear something being stirred and half-roused himself to see, falling just short of actually opening his eyes and raising his head. He could sense light just beyond the darkness, a warmish glow that seemed to surround him; there but too far. He did not feel like chasing it. 

Disgruntled, he shifted slightly and turned his head away, an innocent gesture with childish roots. If the light did not want to come to him, he did not want to go to it. This warm, dark room was more comfortable anyway. He let himself sink back into shadow; let everything flow over him. 

He was drawn back out, however, when he felt something or someone settle next to him. A gentle hand suddenly rested on his back, the light pressure appearing out of nowhere. His awareness focused on it all at once, then a voice spoke, calling part of that awareness away. 

"Strider? I know you can hear me, my friend. It is time for you to wake." 

He disagreed with that last. It was time for him to go back to sleep, and he wished he could deny hearing that musical voice. It was as familiar to him as that name, and he wondered how long he could go without putting an identity to either one of them. 

"Come now, mellon nin. What would your brothers say if they saw you lazing around like this when there was work to be done?" 

He was quite sure he did not want to know. 

The hand on his back shook him lightly. "Strider! Ai, you wish to drive me to insanity! First, I cannot get you to go to sleep; now, I cannot get you to wake up." 

He smiled at the exasperation he heard in that wry voice. This was fun. 

He felt the hand leave his back, then, but though the presence moved away he had not the sense that it left, a conclusion that was confirmed when next it spoke. "Estel Elrondion, if you do not get up right this minute, I shall feed that beloved leather jacket of yours to the flames in pieces!" 

"Only if you want your beloved bow to follow," he retorted without thought. A moment later it occurred to him that that had been a bad idea. Instinctively, he rolled away, trying to get more distance between himself and that voice. When he dared stop, he opened his eyes, unwilling to keep them closed when he could be attacked at any moment by something far more dangerous than a warg could ever be. 

Silver eyes opened, but it was a moment before he found what he sought, so small was it in comparison to endless green plains and boundless blue skies. It was a different blue, though, that caught his eye, deeper and (he was pleased to see) far more amused than annoyed. 

A wry smile completed the picture when the elf was certain he was watching. "He lives," the fair-haired being quipped dryly. 

Aragorn smiled back hesitantly, something in the back of his mind telling him this was wrong, though why or how he could not yet place. He pushed himself up as Legolas turned back to what he had been doing prior to waking him, and the young ranger let his eyes track over the makeshift camp, lightly briefly on some packs the elf had pulled aside before jumping to the fire the elf kept burning with grasses, noting a small pot whose contents were being stirred; he could not, for the life of him, figure out what was in it. Whatever it was, Legolas seemed content, and he was positive he would discover the answer to the riddle, acquiring an understanding beyond his desire, as soon as the task was complete. 

He snorted to himself and pulled the blanket that pooled around his waist more closely around him, glancing at the fabric in passing before freezing. The cloth that had been draped over him was not a blanket, and it was not his: it was Legolas' cloak. The ice that seemed to settle around his heart caught him by surprise, constricting his breathing with a painful ache. Then he remembered. He closed his eyes and let his head sink further down upon his breast. How could Legolas be so kind to him after what he had said? 

"Aragorn?" 

His head started up, his eyes snapping open. Concerned blue eyes searched his silver ones. Aragorn swallowed, then said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry." 

Legolas blinked, twice. "Whatever for?" 

"For saying what I did. I know you were only trying to help and I should not have snapped at you so, no matter how tired I was. I did not mean it and I do need your help. I'm so sorry." He stopped, his words falling away awkwardly. A part of him desperately wanted to ask the elf's forgiveness, but the larger part of him dared not ask. 

"Oh," Legolas said. 

"Oh?" he asked. That had not been the response he had expected, and certainly not the tone he had expected. He had feared Legolas would scoff; expected he would nod regally and perhaps say "of course you're sorry. You're supposed to be sorry" even as he knew the elf prince was not so cruel; but he felt he would deserve it. He had hoped he would accept the apology, had hoped he would make some comment the young man could use to judge if he should-- dared, ask for forgiveness. This single-syllable lack-luster response that one might give if you told them their shoes were on the wrong feet made him feel like he had just been pushed free of his last handhold. He desperately wanted to drop his gaze. He did not dare. 

"You've done this before," the elf prince continued, smiling serenely, as if that explained everything. 

Aragorn did not know what to make of that smile. "Done . . . what?" he asked hesitantly. 

"Apologized, of course." 

"I have?" The ranger blinked; his gaze slid past the elf as he desperately tried to remember when that had been, for he recalled no such thing. Unless Legolas was referring to the many times over the last several years he had done something remarkably stupid and been obliged to seek his friend's forgiveness, he was at a loss. 

"You have," Legolas confirmed, watching the young man closely. "Last night, in fact." 

Aragorn went still. He remembered next to nothing from last night. The only thing that was fixed clearly in his mind was treating Ardevui, and even that he was half-sure he had to have imagined. His eyes darted quickly to the horse in question, still grazing contentedly a dozen feet away, just to make sure his bandage was there and that it had not been a dream. The white stood out clearly. 

For once in his life, he wished he had woken up with a splitting headache and a cotton dry mouth. Then, at least, he would expect to have no memories of the night before; the blank space in his mind that came up with an odd kind of static would not be inexplicable. He wished he had woken up to find the twins sitting before him, their solemn faces poor covers for the amusement in their eyes. Then he could blame this memory lapse on them, his current predicament some elaborate prank they had concocted in the twisted bowels of their collective minds. Anything would be better than this. 

He licked his lips. "I did?" 

Legolas nodded slowly, once more looking concerned; Aragorn wished he would not. "You did," his friend affirmed. "Do you not remember?" 

Hesitantly, he shook his head. 

Legolas studied him seriously a moment, his bright blue eyes boring into him mercilessly. It had been a long time since he had felt so thoroughly wretched around his friend as he did just now. He wanted to look away, to drop his friend's piercing gaze, but he doubted that would make him any feel better, and he still wanted-- needed, to know what had happened, if his friend could ever forgive him. 

Finally, Legolas nodded, as if he had reached a conclusion he had expected. "You did," he affirmed again quietly, "but since you cannot remember my words, let me put you at ease: I do not hold your words against you. You have no reason to apologize. As I know from experience you are ill-disposed to accept that, let me put it another way: I forgive you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and beseech you to put the incident behind you in the name of friendship." He smiled, blue eyes twinkling, and added, "If you mope over it much longer, your guilt will infect me, and then I shall be beseeching _you_ for forgiveness, apologizing at every moment, until you stop." 

Unwillingly, Aragorn smiled, picturing in his mind the noble and proper Prince of Mirkwood following him around on his knees, invoking heaven and earth and everything in between in his efforts to wear his friend down . . . and then he was laughing, chuckling uncontrollably and shaking his head. "Oh, mellon nin, I do not deserve you." 

Legolas just smiled. "You would do the same for me." 

Aragorn looked up, his amusement gone faster than the flash of lightning that had knocked him from his horse. His silver eyes locked intently on the elf's face. "But, Legolas, after what I said? How can you be so sure?" 

A scowl settled over the fair elven face, irritation flashing briefly. "You're not forgetting it. I asked you to forget it, or do my requests and wishes mean nothing?" 

"I-I'm sor--" he tried to stammer, surprised, but Legolas cut him off. 

"Besides, you forget that I know you, Strider," the elf continued before he could finish. He flashed a quick smile. "I know your heart, and I know how grouchy you get when you are tired. I can take a perverse kind of pleasure in knowing you would snap at your brothers, too, if our positions were reversed." 

Aragorn stared at his friend dubiously but soon saw he was serious. He smiled wryly. "You're probably right, my friend, except they would not simply stand there and gape as I walked away. They would chase after me and yell back." A bittersweet ache settled in his gut. 

"I believe you're right," Legolas agreed, "which means I should probably watch out if it is ever _you_ I am searching for with the twins, especially as they're already unstable. I should hate to see what _they're_ like sleep deprived. They _are_ peredhel, after all, and Noldor besides." 

He laughed; then his gaze fell on the pot that still hung over the fire as smoke curled from the top. "I don't wonder," he told the elf. "But I should like to know what you were cooking as it looks about ready to breath fire." 

Legolas frowned, then turned to glance at the pot only to curse and jump up as he saw it. The elf moved quickly to get it off the fire, the somewhat acrid stench of burning finally reaching their noses, too late, accompanied by a kind of dry sizzle as it was pulled from the fire, held gingerly with an old rag and set down quickly on the first suitable surface the elder being could find. He fanned the smoke away with the rag, then peered inside anxiously. A moment later he grimaced in disgust. 

Aragorn stood gingerly and made his way over to get a look himself. A congealed white and black mass met his gaze. It looked vaguely familiar (likely he, himself, had burnt it once) and he ran through a list of what they had with them for eating in an effort to identify it. He settled on oatmeal. 

Legolas looked at him. "Well, it _was_ going to be breakfast." 

He could not help the wide grin that spread across his face. "I'll eat it if you do." 

His friend made a face he had last seen on a girl in Strayton when her mother had tried to give her medicine. He burst out laughing. Legolas shoved him away peevedly. "Hush, human. You do not want to eat it, either." 

"No," Aragorn admitted, plopping down where his momentum took him. "But I would to see you do it." He was still grinning widely. 

The elf shook his head mournfully. "Now I _know_ you have spent far too much time with the twins. I fear they have corrupted you irrevocably. But you have promised me to eat breakfast this morning, and time slips away toward afternoon. What say you to some waybread?" 

Suddenly reminded of their quest, of the twins, Aragorn looked up at the sky, ignoring his friend's question. The sun hung nearly directly overhead. Nearly half the day had slipped away while he languished in warm comfort on the ground. What about his brothers? Were they warm? Comfortable? How much more certain was the fate he had seen for them now that so much time had been spent idle? He jumped up, a dismayed cry on his lips. 

Legolas anticipated him and caught his wrist before the human could take two steps, unceremoniously pulling him back down. Aragorn collapsed back to the ground, the brief shock of pain in his knees jolting him back to the moment, and he found himself face-to-face with Legolas. 

"Listen to me, Aragorn," he demanded, his voice stern and his eyes as serious as the young man had ever seen. "You listen to me and you listen good. Your brothers would never begrudge you a few hours sleep. Never. They would never hold it against you that it took you just a little longer to reach them because your body betrayed you. They want you to be safe, Strider. They would be upset it you did _not_ get any sleep. It is well, mellon nin." 

He wanted to believe, found the words rang true as he already knew they were, but something else kept him from taking the comfort being offered him. He whispered, "They do not have to, for I already hold it against myself. I can't lose them, Legolas. What if I lose them?" 

He expected no answer, and knew his friend did not have one when the elf's clear gaze darkened. Still, he somehow felt better, like a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his back. When Legolas squeezed his wrist in mute comfort, he twisted his hand and squeezed back. 

Legolas glanced over his shoulder at his horse, who had taken up watching the duo at some point unnoticed, then looked back at his friend and flashed a quick smile. "Why don't you go check and see if Ardevui's hoof has healed enough for travel while I dispose of my failed cooking attempt. Then you can eat while I pack and we can be gone before the sun begins her descent. We can reach Caivern before a new day dawns." 

"Legolas, my friend, that sounds like a plan." 

"Good." Aragorn stood as Legolas moved to the pot, but was called back by his friend's soft voice. He turned. "Strider, last night you mentioned you thought you knew who had your brothers, but you never said who. . . ." The elf licked his lips uncomfortably before posing the question that weighed so uneasily on his heart. "Who do you think it is?" 

The ranger's eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sky. "The Slyntari." 

Kalya felt the last of Akin's strength leave her body, the short healer suddenly becoming dead weight in her arms. She quickly removed her hand from the woman's mouth and caught her around her chest as she started to fall. More clumsily than she would have liked, she got her hands under the other's armpits and dragged her over to one of the cots. 

More than once she had been required to drag one of her fellows back to camp and place them, while unconscious, on one of the flimsy beds. Her first attempt had shown her just how difficult such an endeavor was, having knocked over the cot a dozen times (nearly killing herself and her charge each time) in the process, but it had also taught her how it might be accomplished more easily. The last thing she could afford right now was to bring the entire camp down on them with suspicious crashes from the med tent before their escape was even begun. 

The girl stopped before the tent halfway down its length and deftly turned Akin in her grasp, putting her back to the cot. She stepped on the woman's toes to hold her feet in place, then slowly, carefully, began easing her down into a sitting position, practically taking a bath in her still-warm blood in the process. But it accomplished her need-- namely, getting the lifeless body onto the cot without making any noise. From there it was a simple matter to push her down to lay on her side and swing her legs up onto the cot. 

Kalya stepped back, then, and took in her handiwork before stepping closer and positioning the limbs more carefully, smoothing her hair back a bit so it did not fall everywhere. Then she turned away to pick up a blanket and spread it lightly over the still form. Only the woman's dark hair showed. It would do. 

Satisfied with the results of her efforts, Kalya turned away and moved over to where she had left Dane. She stepped over him and picked up the small pack of supplies she had gathered, then moved quickly to the enclosed room where the elf was held. 

Her first thought upon seeing him was that he looked terrible. His skin was pale, the unhealthy near-white making the bruises that covered his chest almost like a shirt stand out in stark contrast. Or maybe it was the dark discolorations that made him seem so pale. In any case, it was only the small rise and fall of his chest that told her he yet lived, and even that she did not think would last long. 

She took a step forward, intending to finish washing his stitches, then thought better of it, reversing direction to stand before the various supplies on the far shelf. She poured more water into a bowl, then picked up a rag and began quickly scrubbing blood from her face and hands, her neck. The red liquid did nothing to her clothes but make them look darker, so she ignored them, little though she had any choice. Reasonably clean, she returned to his side and quickly bathed the row of neat stitches, working as quickly and carefully as she could. 

It was impossible to know when someone would come check on Akin and Dane, and even harder to know if they would be dissuaded by her quick work of camouflage. Akin always slept in the med tent when there were prisoners, but never before all her tasks were done. If anyone took more than a cursory glance through the entrance, they would know that the place was still dirty. If they saw that, they would know something was wrong and look closer. It would not take much to discover the healer was dead, and even less to find that Dane shared her fate. From there, the entire camp would be mobilized and it would only be a matter of time before they were caught if they had not already made good their escape. She guessed they had an hour before that happened. 

She hoped she was right. 

The tub and sponge she put aside in favor of a soft, dry rag when she was done, which she gently pressed around the stitches, drying the area with light dabs and as little pressure as was feasible. It was almost a shame (to her mind) to waste so much time caring for the maintenance of the stitches, especially since she highly doubted they would survive the escape, but she could ill afford to burst them early and have the elf bleed to death, so she finished the task as thoroughly as ever and as quickly as she could manage. Deftly, she folded another rag and placed it gently over the stitches, then wrapped it in place as tightly as she dared, taking pains not to wrap one portion tighter than any other. 

A bit of hair slipped into her face and she brushed it aside absently, slipping away from the cot and over to the desk that held vials, herbs, linens, and other useful things . . . some of them more useful for pursuits outside the healing arts. She ignored them. Running the tips of her fingers over the many neatly arranged, corked vials, she plucked a red one and a clear one. Both she held before her eyes and swirled slightly. . . . She replaced the clear one: it was not what she wanted, and picked up a different one, also clear, but this one held a tint, ever so faint, of yellow around the edges that was nearly lost in the poor light. She set them aside. 

She stepped to the right and snatched an empty vial from an upper shelf. Into it, she poured nearly half of the red vial, then uncorked the clear and tried to ignore the voice in her head that was practically screaming at her that this was a bad idea. She knew it was a bad idea. She also knew the elf would never make it out of the camp without this interesting little concoction. She poured a third of the vial into the other liquid then put it in the holder and recapped both, quickly replacing the red and clear vials, the glass ringing slightly off the braces. 

She found another stopper and secured it, then held it in place with one finger and quickly turned the vial upside down three times, the liquid splashing inside as she mixed the two substances. When she held it back up, the better to see, it had a purplish tint. She found another rag and picked up a knife. 

Moving back over to the cot, she looked down on the elf and prayed he was strong enough for what she was about to do. If he was not, at least he would not have to worry about waking to the hands of the Slyntari. She laced the rag with the mixture and moved the knife over his arm, hesitated, then switched the knife with the rag. 

Then she allowed no time for regrets or second guesses. 

"We've checked the stables," Elrohir was saying as he and Elladan walked the hallways of the Last Homely House, ticking off items on his fingers as he did so. "We've searched the gardens, the library, his room, our rooms, the kitchens, the practice pitch, the archery field, the parlor, the northernmost balcony, the southern balcony, the eastern terrace, the store rooms, the Great Hall, the Lesser Hall, Ada's study, and the Histories." 

"And Legolas' room," Elladan added with a nod. 

"Right, and Legolas' room." The younger twin took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. "I don't now, brother, but I don't think we should let Estel go off with the Rangers any more. He's gotten far too good at hiding." 

Elladan smiled. "Agreed." Then he sobered, frowning slightly as he looked out a nearby window that overlooked the road. "Hey . . . you don't suppose he left, do you?" 

"Who left?" 

"Why would he do that?" 

Elladan and Elrohir whirled in surprise at the unexpected voices. "Legolas!" Elrohir exclaimed happily, a wide grin on his face as he took in the elven prince who stood a few paces behind them with their human brother. Elladan was too shocked to say anything. When had Legolas arrived? The two friends exchanged amused glances. Both looked innocent when they turned back to the twins. 

"Legolas just got here, El," Estel reminded them, the barest hint of a smile on his face. 

"Though their faces _are_ enough to scare one away, aren't they?" the prince conspiratorially. 

Then Legolas scanned their still somewhat damp clothing with the air of someone used to finding fault in others and finding plenty of it before him. His posture changed. "I don't know, Strider," the elf prince said after a moment, leading Elladan to wonder how much of what conversation they had missed. "They look well to me. Damp, but well." 

"Aye, Legolas, but looks can be deceiving," Estel said sagely with a hint of concern. "Do you not remember how they jumped at our entrance?" 

"Oh, aye; indeed I do," Legolas replied, his tone that of one who had just remembered something important. "And their faces! Such surprise." 

"Clearly the work of diseased minds, my friend." 

"Clearly. Do you think we should tell Lord Elrond?" 

"I think we had better," Estel replied with a weary sigh. "Else wise they shall get it in their heads that he has left, as well, and go tearing across the lands in pursuit of him, spreading their madness." 

Elladan gaped at the pair, unreality washing over him. Had he not known better, he would have sworn he was listening to himself and his brother. Perhaps their father was right: he and Elrohir had rubbed off far too much on their little brother and the prince of Mirkwood. 

"Brother?" Elrohir murmured. 

"Yes?" he replied just as softly. 

"Tell me what I just saw." 

He watched as the two openly smirking friends walked away from them, heading for the library where their father was working, unable to come up with a reply. He shook his head slowly. "Tell me what _I_ just saw." 

"I believe it was Legolas and Estel." 

"I agree." 

"Or at least it looked like them." 

"And sounded like them." 

"Or their voices did." 

"Just so." 

The twins glanced at each other, the same thoughts filtering through their minds. The pair they had seen had, indeed, looked just like Legolas and Estel. More, it had sounded like them. What threw them off was that their performance was something they, the twins, would do. It had even been convincing, in an odd, sort of twisted kind of way that the inhabitants of Rivendell had long since come to regard with more than just a little suspicion when facing the sons of Elrond. The same dawning horror widened both pairs of eyes. 

"Ada!" they cried in unison. Elladan broke into a rapid spring, Elrohir right behind him. The residents of Rivendell had come to view their strangely believable comments dubiously, but the same could not be said of Estel or Legolas. If Elrond believed them, the elf lord would force vile concoctions down their throats from now until the day he sailed. 

They skidded around the corner and took the stairs two at a time, rushing to reach their father before their little brother and the prince could. They reached the top and used the banister to swing onto the proper course. Their sharp eyes just caught sight of Estel as he turned the corner leading to the library, following Legolas. Their feet barely touched the floor as they ran. They took the corner without slowing, barely avoiding a head-on collision with the wall, and sped for the doors which were the others' aim. 

Panic touched him when the human's hand curled around one of the door's handles and pulled, slowly forming a crack that grew even larger. Both twins ran harder. Then, in the flash of an eye, they were there. Elladan slammed into the door with no chance to halt, ripping it from his brother's grasp, Elrohir just behind him. The heavy oak flew back to the frame, slamming closed with a _boom_ to shatter the heavens and rattling the walls and doors clear to the kitchens a floor down and across the house. China and other delicate decorations rattled ominously. 

Estel and Legolas gaped at them, frozen, as the twins fought to regain their breath. They looked stunned, like someone had just struck them over the head with a club. Elladan, himself, still felt the angry vibrations of the door, the painful compression of a too quick stop. For a long moment, none of them moved, the only sound the heavy breathing of Elladan and Elrohir. 

Finally, Estel shook himself from his stupor. "Elladan! Elrohir! What were you thinking?" 

Before he could form a reply, the other door opened, revealing Elrond. The elf lord looked between them, checking for injuries and, finding none, demanded, "What is the meaning of this?" 

"We, uh . . ." Elladan began, but trailed off as his breath betrayed him and his mind failed him. What could they possibly say? 

"We were, uh, trying to stop them from disturbing you, Adar," Elrohir answered, apparently willing to sound slightly stupid so he could provide an answer. 

Elrond's eyebrows went up, and he looked to his eldest. Elladan nodded dumbly, feeling sick. "I see," the elf lord said dubiously, that not-trust thing working against them yet again. He looked to the blonde archer and the ranger that still stood frozen to the floor. "Do you two have anything to add?" 

Estel merely stared at the twins for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then the shock of having his two older brothers crash into the door before him seemed to wear off and amusement sparkled once again in his eyes. He looked up innocently at the elf lord. "No, father. I think Elladan and Elrohir have contributed more than enough already." Behind the man, Legolas tried to stifle a snicker. 

Elrond did not react immediately, then he nodded slowly. "I don't want to know," he murmured, almost to himself. Then he pinned the quartet with a stern glare. "I want this house to still be standing at the end of the day. To that end, I want you out of it. I don't care where you go or what you do, but you will not return-- _will not_ be found inside the boundaries of this domicile --before supper. Is that understood?" They nodded. "No, go. March!" 

All four youngsters jumped, startled by the sharp command, then immediately headed in the opposite direction, nearly running down the hall to the stairs. They trooped down them quickly, their footsteps thudding on the hard marble more loudly than was normal. At the bottom, they paused, looking back up. 

Elrohir was the first to break the silence. "What's up with him?" he asked. "I mean, we've never _actually_ destroyed anything before. I mean, the china wasn't really our fault; Celboril should not have stacked it so, and the porcelain statue was knocked over by Landor. Even the Gondorian vase was not our fault." 

"I don't think he cares, brother," Elladan replied. 

"I think," Estel cut in, a strange gleam in his eyes, "that we had better get outside before he comes to check if we have obeyed. And then you two can start at the beginning." 

"Yes," Legolas agreed, his voice mirthful. "This I very much want to hear." 

Elrohir looked like he had been caught with the honey cake. 

"I don't think you do," he protested as they led him outside. "They're dull, quite dull. You'd be bored to tears--" 

"Oh, quiet, El," Elladan interrupted, spitting him with an amused glare. "We'll let them win 'em from us." 

The younger twin frowned slightly as he looked at his brother, then understanding flashed in his eyes and a wicked grin spread over his face. Elladan heroically fought his own grin into submission. 

Estel and Legolas exchanged wary glances. The human looked at him, cocking an eyebrow dubiously, and echoed, "Win them?" 

"Yes," Elladan answered. "We will spar, two on two, and if you win, we will tell you the story of your choice." 

The friends exchanged another glance, the silent communication impressive even to the twins. They looked back. Legolas pressed, "And if we lose?" 

"If you lose. . . ." Elladan glanced sidelong at his twin, employing their own brand of silent communication. He grinned. "Then you tell us why the servants were so eager to be rid of you when we last picked you up from Mirkwood." 

That this was something neither was eager to tell of was more than obvious by the mixed horror and embarrassment that flashed over both faces. An inner battle seemed to wage within them as the leaders that hid within warrior's heart weighed the chance that they would lose against their curiosity to know more. For a moment, the elder twin firmly believed they would turn down the challenge, hitherto unheard of, their hesitant glances doing nothing to change that opinion. Then they both looked forward, suddenly resolved, and nodded curtly. In that moment, they could have been twins, so closely did their expressions match, and Elladan had to blink rapidly to clear the notion. 

"Agreed," Legolas said softly. "If you win, we tell. If we win, you tell." 

"Agreed," Elladan repeated. 

Together and without another word, the friends walked to the practice fields. To see them, one would have thought they marched to war against Sauron's fearsome throng. Undoubtedly, any servant that saw them would immediately run to fetch their father, and the eldest son was glad there were no servants about to test his theory: he was not sure if he would be more disappointed to have the elven lord storm out and insist they desist, or to find their father knew and did nothing. 

The quartet arrived at the pitch the brothers had quitted earlier that morning (though the sun seemed barely to have moved) and split into their preordained pairs: Legolas and Estel pacing to the northern edge while Elladan and Elrohir moved to the southern edge. Weapons were drawn, inspected, tested by quick slashes through the warm air, whistling as they cut through the clear medium. 

The pairs finished their preparations and turned to face each other in nearly the same moment, long familiarity with the others' ways showing early that this battle would not be easily won by either side. Anticipation fairly sang through the air. 

"How shall victory be claimed?" Elrohir asked. 

"A touch to the neck, I should think," Estel answered quietly. It was normal protocol for such sparring matches as these, but the twins had always avoided using it with their human brother, fearing a slip would cost them most dear. Silver eyes held firm. 

Slowly, Elladan nodded. "Aye, a touch to the neck, but disarmament must come first." The other three nodded. 

"May the best win," Legolas intoned with a wry twist to his lips, and the battle was joined. 

Elladan and Elrohir met Legolas and Estel in the center of the pitch, their blades crashing sharply in the initial rush, the impact felt sharply in their arms, then they shifted, falling into fighting patterns of advance and retreat, strike and defend, that they had used many times in past against significantly more numerous foes. That, too, had its drawbacks. 

More used to fighting back-to-back, the pairs now had to adjust their style to more exclusive fare, shifting to fight side-by-side, instead, while maintaining the shared defense and trying to maneuver their opponents to more compromising positions yet still avoid the same fate. It was hardly surprising that Elladan and Elrohir were better at it, despite their companions' spirit, having fought battles together for centuries, but the skill of human and elf prince were not to be overlooked as they escaped time and again, just at the last second, from the elven twin's traps, jumping through like soap squeezed in a too tight grip. 

With barely a glance, the command to loosen their attack passed between Elladan and Elrohir. They increased the space between them and their quarry, allowing the pair more breathing room, but never let up on their attacks, their blows still coming as fast and from as many different directions. 

Almost immediately, their opponents changed tactics, one falling back while the other took the brunt of the twins' combined assault. Anyone who did not know them so well as the prince, with speed and skill to match, would have fallen. As it was, he met their attacks squarely, just barely met them, but still met them. They pressed closer-- 

And were forced to retreat as Estel suddenly made his presence felt once more, slashing into their concerted formation with a blow calculated to scatter and unbalance-- one that worked quite well, he might add --as the startled twins discovered they could not turn to face him without being forced to reckon with Legolas. Instinctively, they settled into their old defense, angled slightly, and faced the friends separately, forcing them to meet them individually but never allowing themselves to be pushed back-to-back. 

Elladan found himself combating his youngest brother, parrying high and low, slashing, feeling the sword shudder in his grip with each blow. As he stared across into silver eyes, defending himself against expert blows, he could not help but feel a wash of pride for the young human, knowing that he had helped train the skill that was even now leveled against him. 

He raised his sword high, then low, twisting it around from the right to check his brother's sweeping strike, then back around to knock aside the jab aimed to skewer him. He ducked away as he saw an elbow flying for his face, felt it soar over his head, and swept his sword out towards the human's legs. His respect for his youngest brother's skills went up a notch as the blow was blocked. A smile split his face. 

It faltered, along with his step, as burning fire cut across his arm above his elbow. Startled, he looked down at the limb, dropping his guard. Caught off guard by the abrupt change, Estel just managed to turn the blade so the flat would strike his brother and not the edge, but he could not check the blow, already wholly committed to the strike when he noticed the shift. Elladan staggered under the blow, knocked backwards by its force, his air pressed from his lungs. Shock kept him from reacting as three pairs of concerned eyes fixed on him. 

The fire that had formed a line across his arm now spread, stretching to engulf his fingers before creeping up to his shoulder. He gasped, his eyes searching frantically for an injury that would explain the inexplicable pain, but he found none. His breathing accelerated, his heart raced inside his chest. Heat spread through him. His vision swam. 

Elladan looked up helplessly, his pleading gaze seeking out his brothers and friend as his vision darkened around the edges. They stood before him, expressions sad, separated from him by a handful of steps, not even his twin making a move to come to his aid-- near, but untouchable. He felt his sword slip from his fingers. He tried to call out for help, but no words passed his lips. Wind or blood roared in his ears. 

The world around him began to tilt, careening first one way, then the other, stretching strangely as the grainy darkness spread, tunneling his vision. He fixed his eyes on matching blue, pleading without words for his brother to help him. But Elrohir did not move. His eyes sunk, shadowed, turning haunted, and bruises suddenly appeared on his face, ugly black and blue splotches that disfigured his visage. Had he been able to move, horror would have driven Elladan backwards. 

Terrified blue eyes turned instead to Estel, battling the darkness that pulled at him, consuming him, hoping the human would have answers he lacked. But the strong youth he had been fighting moments ago melted away before his very eyes, his broad frame shrinking as he lost weight, becoming an emaciated shadow of himself, his face turning gaunt, the light of youth and health and happiness fading from his silver eyes, leaving them dull and lifeless: a shell. 

Desperate, distraught, he turned to Legolas. The blonde archer only stared at him; his empty stare more than the elder twin could bear. With a cry, his legs gave out from under him, and the darkness closed in, pulling him up and away even as he fell, spinning mercilessly, snatching his family, his home, from his grasp, and he felt his mind stretching, grasping desperately for those he was forced to leave behind, felt them slip, his mind spin, become hazy, grow clear, and then _snap_-- 

And felt a hand pressed firmly on down on his arm where the fire had originated. He battled the darkness that clung resolutely in his mind, trying to hold him in shadow. He forced his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a knife. 

Then a hand closed firmly over his mouth. 

_Review Responses:_

Tychen: lol. I understand completely. I had a similar incident when writing up last chapter. I always write the chapters out first because it helps me figure out what I want to say better than simply typing (for reasons I don't understand) and as I was typing them up I came upon a sentence I didn't understand. It made no sense at all. So I had to figure something else out. Threw a wrench into my typing session. Delayed me a whole thirty minutes. Lol. coughs Perhaps I should have a little more silence now? g I'm glad it worked well. I hope this one works just as well, strange though it is. Ah, well, they may not want my pity any more than they want Shirk's. . . .eg Ah! I just figured out what "eg" meant! Lol. I am such a loser. sigh giggles helplessly Hm, yes, it is rightly his turn, but I haven't figures out if it's going to work that way or not. These chapters fiercely resist any planning on my part. So we'll both have to wait and see what happens. My car is whole again, thank you. I got it Friday morning and have been enjoying my renewed freedom for the last week. Now, if only the next chapter will cooperate as well as this one did, I should be able to get it up by, hm, Wednesday(?) of the week after next, 12 days from now. That sounds like such a long time. Anyway, until next chapter. 

Grumpy: lol. I wonder what Tolkien would say. I as looking back through the appendixes and I think I know where I came up with Legolas' horse's name from. giggles insanely The name in the book is Arvedui, and was-- unless I'm mistaken-- a descendent of the northern line who was denied the throne of Gondor(?), I think it was Gondor, because the southern kingdom was not given to the rule of...and I can't remember who. I get those people mixed up. Mmhm, several want him. He's very popular. And tell me, honestly, did anything ever bode well from Aragorn in this story? I dare say she'll try. Success will depend on the Slyntari and the twins themselves. We all know how stubborn they can be; Strider had to get it from somewhere, after all. g Yes, well, I'll be hiding from Lord Elrond for awhile, just until he calms down. Hope you enjoy! 

Rangergirl: grins broadly I'm so glad. Mm, tired, hurt, yes. That's what wrong with him. Unless he's been hiding it from me, he's not sick yet, but I wouldn't put that past him. g I daresay the rest he's finally got did wonders for him. Thanks for reviewing again! smiles cheekily 

Nerfenherder: shudders at the thought I was hiding from him. That's a full-time job, I tell you. g lol. Me, too, I cannot imagine what I was thinking when I wrote it, but I'm glad I did. For that matter, I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this chapter either, except that I was obviously thinking less than the chapter before. lol. Forgive me my excentricies. That line was my favorite, too. I wonder if I was tired . . . No, I don't think that shall work. Hm. . . . Vaguely remember, do you, well what would you say if I told you she's shown up twice previously? Eh? Ah, yes, reunion. grins to self Reunions are so much fun. I had their little reunion all written up already before I went on this rewrite-athon, but I don't think I shall be able to use it, now. Ah, well. And I did it! Before the 8th! Yay! Your fault. g I bet you're more than willing to bare the blame, hm. Until next chapter. 


	16. Make No Sound

All right, I'm back! smiles tightly I hate this chapter. But-- in writing it, I have learned one very important lesson: _never, ever, ever write a seriously momentum driven chapter and then stop_. Ever. It inevitably causes tons of headaches, especially when you're more or less pretending the entire story doesn't exist for roughly a week. chuckles weakly I was kinda over-optimistic about posting in twelve days, wasn't I? I had forgotten that my aunt was coming down so soon after Graduation and that I was required to clean my room. Then there came the headaches. 

I must have thrown out a dozen different versions of the first part of this story before stumbling upon one I was content enough with to type up. Getting halfway through a chapter five times then having to start over is not fun I tell you. Which is why you're getting this one: I can't stand to look at it anymore. Thus, it is not as good as it could be. I'd venture to say it's one of my worst chapters yet, but that might just be my antipathy talking. grin Everytime I decide it stinks, you all say it's good. So, shrugs Feel free to point out any inconsistencies or things that just seemed off somehow. I won't be mad at you (at least I won't be by the time I reply back grin). Lol. 

Speaking of replies . . . I would like to thank Tychen, Nerfenherder, Grumpy, and Kayla for voting. I'll have to think of something nice to do for all of you. I'm thinking a small story. smiles The rest of you, perhaps I should mention I don't bite. I know there are more of you lurking out there. Ff.net has this wonderful little aurthor alert thing and it just happens to inform the authors how many of you wonderful people there are, so. . . . grins expectantly If it's the only time I ever hear from you, I want you to vote. Please? Will you do it if I beg? 

Oh! And I thought of two new story ideas. looks sheepish I didn't mean to. The first came to me while I was watching Yu-Gi-Oh about the time I had intended to post. The second occurred to me only two days ago. And I'm going to add them to your options. So, here goes: 

(untitled) Aragorn: age 21. Aragorn meet Legolas fic. Aragorn finds a woman in the woods and saves her from a man. The man curses the ranger. Whenever he saves another person, he feels curiously weaker. He must figure out what is wrong and how to reverse it without forsaking who he is. 

(also untitled) Aragorn: age 18-25. This assumes a form of reincarnation, I guess. It takes place millennia after the War of the Ring with another Ring that falls into the hands of Aragorn who must use it to destroy an evil lord threatening their survival (please keep in mind this is a really rough summary that has not completely formed in my mind and will subsequently change as I figure out what I'm doing, but it's a fair idea). It would be the same general idea as LOTR with noticeable differenes, I think. 

I think I'll put the whole lot on my bio page, maybe come up with some actual summaries for you too. Know that I am only counting your first choice in this. Second votes will not be included unless a significant amount (in my sole estimation) of you have voted and you still come up short of a single fic with ten votes, then-- depending on my mood-- I may use secondary votes to boost the numbers. Should more than one fic have upwards of ten votes, there will be a vote-off. g You can change your vote by choosing a new title should you decide the one you voted for is not the one you wanted. 

I've now managed to forget what I was going to say. Ah, well. Means it's time to get on to the fic. I have high hopes that the next chapter will not take nearly so long to get up. Keep your fingers crossed and review lots. Guilt trips always work. nods solemnly 

Wait! One more thing: I beg your forgiveness, but I don't have time to respond to your reviews, but I have read them (and I'm thrilled that all of you loved the twins chasing Estel through the gardens only to be caught by Elrond) and I love every one of them. You all make me blush. I could wait and post later, but this is already a day late because I tried to do that, and I think (hope) you prefer to have the next chapter now than wait until I have enough time to sit and write out your well deserved responses. Then, I imagine you want me to hurry up with the next chapter, where Aragorn and Legolas finally reappear. 

g So enjoy. Or try to. The next one will be better. looks anxious 

(p.s. Have I mentioned I hate ff.net? They stole my stars! pouts Had forgotten, too, which would have had you reading this without breaks. Fun, right? g Sorry for this delay in your regularly--irregularly--scheduled program. On with the show.) 

****

**Chapter 16**

Torl sat surrounded by plain gray walls of thick fabric with his legs crossed, his back braced against his cot, and his sword thrown across his lap. His left hand braced the well-worn hilt while his right held a whetting stone. 

With practiced ease he drew the stone down the side of the blade, sharpening it and smoothing any pits that might have gouged the weapon's edge. The familiar motions were calming, taking away the jittery unease that had settled over him, letting him lose himself in the simplicity of the task, the moist slide of damp stone on metal foremost in his mind. But it could not stay so. Sharpening blades was not a mentally demanding task. While it gave the hands something to do, it left the mind unoccupied and free to roam. 

_"Why so quiet, Torl, my dear?"_

His gray eyes traveled across the plain cloth that sheltered him from the cold and wind, the snow should it fall, and now the company of his fellow Slyntari. 

_"The mind is an intricate thing, dearest Nirt. It is best to let it roam where it will."_

_"Do share with us some of these thoughts."_

It was rare that anything having to do with the Slyntari would remain as simple as it should be. A meal, was not just a meal, not even primarily a meal. It was an opportunity for the wolves to come out and play, to ply their teeth against something solid, and worry whatever meat they were able to get their hands on. 

_"I doubt you would find them to your liking, dearest."_

__

_"Nonsense. We all enjoy variety."_

He hated mealtimes, especially the ones in the evening, when it was guaranteed all the Slyntari would be present-- all the officers, the only ones who truly deserved the title of Slyntari, the best of the best. He had heard of political infighting that was less dangerous. 

_"I was wondering if the preparations are ready for the Ranger." Not true, but truth was rarely safe around this bunch. No one ever spoke the truth._

__

_"Worried we won't be able to deal with him?"_

__

_Too close. "He escaped the last time."_

__

_"That's only because he had the help of a traitor."_

A traitor. Kelt had always found those meetings vaguely amusing, a challenge she looked forward to. Unlike him, she was able to turn the conversation back on her opponents. Maybe if he had that skill, he would not have had to retreat to his quarters. 

_"And what of the help of an Elf?"_

Hefting the stone's weight, he brought it back to the haft's base and slid it smoothly towards the tip. It was ironic, he supposed, that the one person he felt he could talk to about the shadows that weighed on his mind was the one person he could not approach. 

_Nirt did not reply, nor did any of the others, but he feared he had made a mistake. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the shrewd eyes watching him saw more than he cared to reveal. It was time to leave._

He would never dare oppose his lord, nor question his judgment. He had learned over the years that Shirk was a formidable opponent and a capable leader. One did not live as long as he had without becoming proficient at many tasks. But sometimes, in the dark of his own thoughts, he wondered if the elf was not losing his touch. 

It was not that Shirk had slowed down. His fighting skills were as sharp as ever, his superiority unchallenged. His mind was still shrewd, his intelligence unquestionable. Yet Torl had the feeling that something was wrong; that despite the fact that the elf was still as dangerous as ever, he was not focusing as he once did. The tales of his emotionless brutality in ensuring his enemies met the fates they deserved were legendary. No one had escaped him in millennia uncounted. Only now two had: one of their own, Kelt, and a Ranger of no renown or consequence. 

Torl pressed his lips together in a thin line and drew the stone down metal one last time. He could still hear the grating song echoing in his ears as he tucked the rock away, then ran a soft rag over the blade's length before resheathing it. The metal rang clearly, and he listened to it until the hilt clicked against the top of the scabbard. He stood. Perhaps Shirk was getting too involved. Vengeance for the sake of vengeance was distracting. Or perhaps he, Torl, was imagining things, letting his fears get the best of him. 

What if the elves were not so clueless as Shirk believed? What if they had found the trail and were even now riding after the lost sons of Elrond? Facing one elf was one thing; facing more, quite another. Was Shirk prepared to face the entourage Elrond would send to retrieve his sons? It would not be a small company, he was sure. He knew _he_, Torl, was not prepared. He had seen elves fight. He had no wish for a more personal viewing. 

He set his face and went back outside. The canvas flopped closed behind him and he glanced around the camp, taking note of where everyone was. He had no desire to be drawn back into another minefield laden discussion, especially when his thoughts were so near the surface. He set off towards the edge of camp, a safe place near the western edge of mountains where few would venture and he could be alone with his thoughts. 

And yet . . . much though he feared facing elves, he knew that was not what was wriggling at the back of his mind, niggling at him, whispering that something was wrong. Something close at hand. 

_"You have good instincts, Torl. You should listen to them more."_

__

__His instincts told him his unease stemmed from the elven twins. Yet how could that be? They were both secured, neither in danger of going anywhere. He had tested those chains, watched others struggle against them, and knew there were few more immovable than the links which bound prisoners in these lands. The only way to escape them was to use a key. Neither dark-haired elf had one. 

Or did they? 

He frowned, furiously wondering at the advisability of listening to the words of a traitor. Most would consider that suicide. Taking _any_ advice from a Slyntari was widely considered by many in Mordor to be the quick road to death. They had a habit of deliberately trying to get you in trouble and most of the time, Torl even had to admit, he had found it amusing. It was not so funny when he was on the other side. Still, her advice had always been sound. . . . 

The man glanced up, seeking the steady presence of the stars for answers, and was almost startled to find the sky overcast, the stars hidden from sight by a blanket of steel gray clouds darker than his eyes. He blinked. 

They had arrived with nightfall, driven over the land by the cold gusts of dusk, and now floated darkly above. He had heard, once, that the weather sometimes changed to match the moods of the elves. He wondered if that was true, or if that was simply more superstitious nonsense picked up by the ignorant and blown out of proportion, much like the belief of elven invincibility. 

He ground his teeth together, listening to them scrape against each other as he considered the space between him and their elven prisoners. He had time, no duties to attend to until well into the night. Realistically, he should be sleeping, but it would not take a genius to realize that was not going to happen. What would it hurt to take a little walk their direction, and maybe stop in and see how they were while he was over there? 

_Besides, Elves are slippery creatures. It can never hurt to be too sure._ And it would put his nerves at ease. 

Decided, he began making his way towards the underground cell where the one elf was being held. He would check and see that he was still secure, then go talk to Akin, see how the other one fared. Maybe the gods would have smiled on them and he had talked in his sleep, telling them everything they wished to know. He smiled grimly. He doubted the gods would ever favor them that much. 

Elladan stared. There were plenty of times in the nearly three millennia he had been alive that he had been surprised: when the decorative lattice over the gardens had given way beneath him and his brother's weight when they were just thirty; when their father had caught them in the middle of one of their pranks with one of his own a hundred years later; when they were on their first hunt with Glorfindel as elflings and were set upon by wargs, the hairy beasts suddenly jumping at him from nowhere; years later, while on their own, running into the Chieftain of the Dúnadain through a horde of orcs, their crossed blades the only thing between them and his own surprise mirrored back at him from familiar eyes. 

Then the still darker surprise of being attacked on the way to Lorien, his mother captured and carried off, too many blocking his path for him to reach her; later, the chill surprise of finding an arrow through Arathorn's eye, a man he had respected and sworn to protect, dead; countless more surprises, the fault of Aragorn, so many that he had thought nothing would surprise him again. 

But nothing, not even all of Aragorn's predictably unpredictable antics, had prepared him for this: to wake up, held in the grasp of an enemy, and facing the attack of another. 

He thought he should do something-- strike out, yell, retreat-- but his mind was racing too quickly and his body reacting too sluggish; he could do nothing but stare. Wonderful, that his elven strength would fail him now, when he needed it most. 

Bereft of the impetus to do anything else, his eyes drifted to the side, seeking the owner of the hand clamped over his mouth. He caught dark hair and the impression of serious eyes before the being moved. Warm breath prickled the hairs by his ear and he tensed. 

A soft voice spoke lowly beside him, his racing mind skipping syllables, and he struggled to force the sounds into coherency. Slowly (far too slowly), it worked and deliberately spoken words filtered into his head: ". . . Elf. We're going to be spending some quality time together and we need to get a few things straight. The first thing is this is a private party and you want to keep it that way. Means you need to be quiet. If you can agree to that, I can remove my hand from your mouth. Blink twice if you agree." 

Elladan resisted the command in that order and struggled to think. He stared up at the ceiling and willed himself not to blink. This was yet another surprising twist, another thing he had not thought to expect. Was he truly be given the chance to cooperate? But to cooperate with what? To what purpose? He would not be a puppet for his captors. Still . . . it could not hurt to see what was going on first. Could it? 

He blinked, twice. 

The hand was removed instantly, snatched away like it had been burned. He licked his lips reflexively. "Who are you?" he rasped quickly, his thin voice nearly inaudible to his own ears. 

If his visitor heard him, he ignored it. "Next, you will do as I say, when I say without fail or hesitation." 

"I will do no such thing," he denied, his voice stronger. "You'll have to kill me." 

"No, Master Elf, I will not," the voice hissed close to his ear. He could feel a hand on his arm. "I can leave you here and the Slyntari will do it for me without shedding a tear. Likely, you'll even get to see your brother go first. Now, will you do as I say, when I say it, or should I leave now and save myself some trouble?" 

He swallowed, a frown pulling at his lips. "Who are you?" His mind was still racing, making it difficult to focus, and a headache had begun pulsing at the base of his neck threatened to steal what focus he did manage. He wished this being would come right out and say what he wanted instead of hiding in the shadows. 

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," the voice said, the singsong tone nearly ironic. "Will you cooperate?" 

"Tell me your name." He wanted to know who this mysterious being was. He would not go anywhere with someone he did not know. 

"You do not need my name." 

"If you want my cooperation, tell me your name," he said, putting as much steel in his voice as he could manage through his pain, the dull but persistent aches that made everything uncomfortable. 

Silence. Then, reluctantly, "Sierra." The name seemed strange on her tongue, like one she was not used to saying. He supposed most people did not often say their own name. "Will you cooperate?" 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Within reason," he answered hesitantly. "Tell me what you want." 

He had the strangest feeling that this "Sierra" was cursing him silently. "What do you want?" The voice was soft, nearly seductive. 

He debated the wisdom of voicing his desires. If she was the enemy. . . . But no, if she was one of the Slyntari, it would change nothing. Shirk had to know he wanted to escape, but knowing he wanted it did not mean it would be possible to get. He exhaled his breath in a hiss. "To leave," he whispered. "With my brother, and never come back." 

"Then you would do well to listen to me, son of Elrond. That is my purpose, but you must not fight me. It is a small window of opportunity we are trying to sneak through. The Slyntari are vigilant; we must go fast or they will notice something amiss. They are expecting someone else, watching a different quarter, and while they are preoccupied we can sneak away, but that will not happen if you draw their attention. Do you understand?" 

"Yes," he breathed, keeping his voice just as soft as hers (at least, he thought she was female now that he had had a better opportunity to hear her speak) had been. If she spoke the truth. . . . 

But how could he know for sure? The last strangers they had trusted were responsible for them being here. That betrayal still stung. Those people had seemed kind, their intentions pure, and then they had turned on them. How could he be sure Sierra would not do the same? Could he trust her? 

Could he afford not to? That was an uncomfortable thought. He did not want to believe that the life of his brother, and his own, hung on the word of a stranger when it would take so little to betray them all. But surely she would not go to the trouble to free them only to betray them? There was no point to that. Unless there were others who wanted them. But who was there outside of Mordor? It was a thin line on which to base his trust, but he clung to it just the same. 

He turned his head, ignoring the way his surroundings warped and swayed around him. He could see now that his rescuer was, indeed, a female. He was not prepared for how young. _Valar! She is a child!_ He was no expert at judging the age of humans, but he would bet all his possessions that she was younger than twenty. Her blue eyes stared at him seriously, older than her years, and he wondered what had happened to bring her here. Was she a captive like him? No, that was not possible. Had she escaped? 

"What would you have me do?" he asked, locking gazes with her. Now that he asked, though, he did not feel like doing anything. The thought of moving made his chest hurt, and his head throbbed, pulsing bright spots at the corner of his eyes with every rapid beat of his heart. He could barely discern the separate beats, they came so fast. He felt like he was suffocating. 

"Do you have a headache?" she asked suddenly. 

That was not the answer he expected. "Yes." 

"Blurry vision?" 

Almost as if her room was the trigger, the room shifted to a formless blob and he blinked. "Yes." 

She rested her hand on his chest above his heart, her eyes going somewhat distant as she concentrated on what she felt beneath her hand. He waited expectantly. She hissed. "Difficulty breathing?" 

"No," he said. He could breath just fine; it just did not seem he was able to draw enough of it. His head swam. His shoulders felt tense. 

He might have imagined the glare she shot him before moving away. He watched for a moment as she moved to a table set against the far wall with bottles and stuff on it before relaxing back into the bed, his head rolling back towards the ceiling. The solid, uninterrupted gray looked somewhat blurry before him, but he did not mind, retreating inside his head against the pain he felt. 

Sierra's questions had shifted his focus to his body from her. While he had been intent on determining who she was and what she wanted, he had been able to ignore the grumblings of his body. Now he could not forget the headache that was trying to split his head open, nor the dryness of his throat. He could feel the bruises on his chest and the stiffness in his shoulders. And if that was not enough, he could suddenly feel the hundred little hooks that had settled in his flesh, hooks that pulled against his skin with every quick breath he took. Unfortunately, he also knew what they were, and that knowledge was almost enough to make him groan. 

It had been years since he had last required stitches. The incident itself had been unmemorable, a border patrol culminating in an orc attack that ended with him sporting a six inch long gash in his leg. The gash was nothing compared to the seventy or so stitches he had had to endure for a little more than a week while the skin closed. Feeling those bits of thread pull at already tender skin with every movement he made, stretching it, was one of the single most uncomfortable moments of his life. It did not help that he had been bedridden with the injury for nearly two days lest the stitches break and his father have to "stitch him back up," never mind that he was hale save for the injury. He had hoped it would be longer-- much longer-- before he needed suffer the confounded things again. 

And then his mind caught up with him. _"Difficulty breathing?" No._ He took a breath, testing it, feeling the stitches prickle as his chest expanded. Despite the fact that he still could not seem to get quite enough air and a faint burning assailed him when he tried, he could breathe just fine. Someone had tended his broken ribs. Which also meant he knew why he had the stitches, and why his lungs burned. It could also explain the lack of air. It also meant that, for whatever reason, his captors did not want him to die-- not yet. He was not sure yet if that was a comforting thought. 

Elladan blinked as something intruded amid the gray, his gaze drifting back towards where the girl had stood, and he noticed Sierra had returned to his side, a mug (the thing that had intruded) clasped in her hand. She knelt beside him and carefully raised his head. He helped as best he could and drank without question when she tipped the cup against his lips. "This should help with the pain," she murmured. 

He had to resist the urge to spit it out. It tasted foul, like refuse from a human town that had festered and rotted in the rain water, with an aftertaste like antiseptic. "Are you sure?" he wheezed, the taste stealing his breath. 

She smiled knowingly. "Be happy. Some people drink this stuff for pleasure." 

_For pleasure?_ He could not imagine anyone drinking that for enjoyment. He followed her with his eyes as she moved away towards the table to put the cup down. "Sadistic," he murmured, making a face. "What does it do?" 

"It numbs pain," the girl answered quietly, her back to him as she manipulated something on the table. "If one consumes enough of it, it warps reality." 

Well, then, that explained the attraction in drinking it; men would endure the oddest things to escape their own thoughts. Drinking the pain away, even if it tasted like poison, was a popular option among the human race. "What now? How shall we escape? Especially if the Slyntari are as vigilant as you claim." He wished a drug could ease his short breath. 

Sierra held a corked bottle when she turned back around. "By being in the last place they expect," she answered, grim satisfaction in her voice. She knelt beside his bed and tucked the bottle into a bag, pulling out a wad of dark cloth before she stood up. She set the fabric aside at the foot of his bed before turning back to him. "How do you feel?" 

Elladan thought about it a minute, cautiously stretching his slim form. The pain he was expecting was dulled, almost like an afterthought. "Better," he admitted. 

"Good." The girl perched on the side of the cot and pulled a small object from the folds of her robes. She fitted the iron key into the lock on one of his cuffs and twisted, popping the manacle open with a sharp _click_. It fell from around his wrist, helped off as he raised his arm, and she placed it gently back on the bed before repeating the procedure with the other three. She spoke before he could push himself up. "Don't move." 

He frowned. "Why?" 

"Because the inside of this tent is brighter than the land out there and while there aren't many with reason to be near this side of the tent, there is not reason to take more chances than need be." She walked back to the table. "We aren't ready to leave yet." 

He watched her in silence. What more was there to do? His blue eyes followed her movements closely, but his angle was poor and he could not make out what she was doing. He thought she might be gathering herbs, but he could not imagine why she had not done that when she was getting that bottle ready. Did she wish to waste time, or was there a reason for what she was doing? He wished she would hurry up. 

On the ride over here, it had been Elrohir who had been impatient, constantly seething over their captivity, worry for his brother consuming him and driving him to distraction. He had been worried about Elladan's health and wanted nothing more than to escape their captors and go home; battling his pain, Elladan had been unable to share that impatience. Now, with that block gone, he itched with the desire to free his twin from these murderous people. He did not want to wait. 

He wished he knew what Sierra was doing. Her motions had changed; it no longer looked like she was reaching for things, but putting them in something, like pockets or a sack. Yet when she turned, she had no bag either in her hands or slung over her shoulder. Several packets of herbs and three flasks were held in her hands. Those she tucked into her pack with the bottle, all but one flask. That she brought over to him and once more helped him drink. The cool liquid was bliss after the foul medicine that put his father's sleeping draughts to shame, and he drank deeply. His mouth no longer felt cottony and his headache even seemed to ease a touch. 

She pulled back, tucking the remainder into the pack. "See if you can stand," she ordered. 

"Of course I can," he retorted sharply, annoyed at the doubt he saw in her eyes. Annoyed, and afraid. If he could not stand, how could he walk? And if he could not walk, how could he help his brother? Savagely, he pushed those thoughts aside and remembered his stitches just in time to carefully swing his legs over the side of the cot. He rolled onto his elbow instead of simply up, using his arm to lever himself up so as not to pull on his chest muscles more than he had to. 

The tent spun nauseatingly as he moved from a horizontal position, and he was forced to clutch the edge of the cot until it steadied. It was slightly easier to breath now that he was no longer laying on his back. Of course, now that he was sitting, he could not imagine actually standing up. He felt weak and shaky, like from a fever-- but elves did not suffer the ailments of men. 

Some of his uncertainty must have shown on his face. "Would you like something to help?" Sierra asked delicately. He shook his head. "It will be a long trip." 

He looked up, locking gazes with this youth who for some reason wanted to help them. He searched her eyes and could see in them the certainty that he did not have the strength to effect this escape. He could read the long walk and climbing that it would take to secure their freedom, saw the possibility of having to fight his way past guards, and knew that even if he managed to stand up, he would never have the strength to walk from this room, run from this camp. He sighed, then nodded. 

Bile rose up in his throat that had nothing to do with the occasional light spinning of his surroundings. He, an elf, had to take a potion so he could walk. It was humiliating-- sickening. He was strong, capable, and a single beating was enough to make him helpless. That it was a single beating after weeks of hard travel at the hands of thoughtless humans and days of starvation made no difference. He still should not be so weak. 

_"There is no shame in admitting weakness, my son."_

His breath stilled as his father's voice echoed inside his head. Deep blue eyes in that wise, well-loved face appeared before him, staring at him, willing him to accept the truth of his words. 

_"It is a sign of strength to be able to admit when you need help."_

Quicker than he had expected, Sierra stood again before him, a mug held out between them. He glared at her as he took it, suspecting rightly that she had known he would need it and prepared it while she was gathering other medicines. His glare became a grimace at the bitter taste of the liquid. Valar, was there no medicine that did not taste vile? 

Elladan continued drinking, ignoring the bitterness as best he could and suppressed the shudder that wanted release when he was done. He dropped his head as the girl took the cup, feeling the concoction speed through his veins, bringing warmth with it, and he could not deny that he felt stronger, more energized, though it was still several moments before there was enough of a difference that he could stand. 

He pushed himself up slowly, wary of causing himself undue pain and making a fool of himself by falling on his face. But though he swayed unsteadily for a moment, he did not fall, and it was not long before he could stand on his own. That made him feel better. 

The girl reached over and snatched the cloth from the foot of the cot, shaking it so it unfolded. He eyed it narrowly, noting the touches of red that interrupted the black in several places. A horrible suspicion tugged at his mind as he stared at the cloak, one that was confirmed when he looked into Sierra's eyes. Was she but taller and broader, with silver eyes instead of blue, he would have sworn he stood before Estel, the boy perfectly confident in the plan he had proposed. And like then, he wished he had a better plan to offer. 

Reluctantly, he accepted the proffered garment, slowly swinging it around his shoulders as she pulled on one of her own. The dark fabric was thick, hanging heavily on his shoulders. To him, it felt restrictive, uncomfortable. Sierra did not seem to share his opinion. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening, and he frowned. 

She straightened, a new urgency in her eyes. "Come," she ordered and waved him forward. 

As he followed, he had the sinking feeling that this had been a bad idea. 

He was within sight of the elf's underground cell when it happened. Movement overhead caught his eye, a flash of darker shadow against the gray clouds that hung above him. He followed it as it flashed past him, turning to keep it in view as it circled the camp, gradually working its way lower. He did not need to see the wings to know it was a bird; a hawk, to be more precise. He did not need to see the roll of paper secured to its leg to know it bore a message, and he did not need to see the message to know who it was from. 

Torl stayed where he was, waiting, listening intently to the sounds around him: the quiet roar of the many fires, the slight clatter of the meal being prepared or put away, the distant murmur of soft voices, the waiting silence of a land about to sleep. He counted out the seconds, timing in his mind's eye how long it would take the bird to find the elf lord and the pause for his superior to read the message. He could imagine the way Shirk's eyes would narrow, the slight tensing of his jaw. 

Then the tone sounded, a base rumble that was nearly too low to hear. It overlaid the sounds of night with a barely perceptible energy, calling those who knew to heed its call. Most never even paused. Yet around the camp, the nearly a dozen lieutenants of the Slyntari were dropping what they were doing and heading to Shirk's tent. 

He stayed where he was, frozen. A part of him wanted to ignore the summons, wanted to continue on to check on the elf and assuage that strange disquiet that still hummed inside him unabated. The more rational part of him knew that was impossible. Those who ignored the elf lord always lived just long enough to regret it. 

Gray eyes sought out the lonely space in the near distance that marked the entrance to the prison, searching the area intently before turning away. Torl did not look back as he headed back across the camp. He would come back when the meeting was over. It would not take long. 

Impatience jangled his nerves the entire way. 

Elladan had never been fond of hiding from his enemies. He had never had very much patience for hiding _among_ his enemies either, lest it was to spring a trap on them later. But he had also never been _afraid_ of either option. Of course, he could also not remember a time when failure would be so disastrous. He had no illusions about what would happen to them if Shirk discovered they had tried to escape. 

He walked nervously behind the slight figure of Sierra, her cloak billowing behind her importantly. The thick fabric glided behind them like an honor guard, and the elf hoped the image it presented was enough to cover his nervousness. Even after he had guessed the plan, he had held out hope that he might be wrong; had hoped that the cloaks were just cover if they were seen. He had not counted on striding straight from the med tent's entrance into the middle of the camp and continuing towards his brother in plain sight of everyone who wanted them dead. He distracted himself by debating if this was actually something Estel would do, and came to the uncomfortable decision that it was. No wonder the boy got into so much trouble. 

He grimaced, then prayed that mannerism had not been noticed. Sierra, herself, did not seem worried. Then again, maybe he would not be either if he knew the plan. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were going after his brother. The only instructions she had given him were three: stay close, don't ask questions, and make sure your twin does the same. That he was to follow her instructions went without saying-- he had already agreed to that. But even if they made it to Elrohir, how were they going to get him out? 

The girl lead him between two tents as nondescript as the two they had already passed then continued down the new lane as if they had never deviated and, though the tents all looked just the same, he suddenly had the strangest feeling of deja vu-- he had been here before. 

His eyes darted from side to side, taking in the tents on either side, marked with colored bands across the top that denoted some message he was unable to read. His heart, still beating impossibly fast, began to beat harder. He swallowed, his dry throat clicking. He had not thought it would effect him so when he had barely remembered the walk as it was. Yet he could feel the dread, the despair, the nearly overwhelming urge to turn and run-- 

His breath came hard and fast, nearly whistling as it passed clenched teeth. He could not break down. Not here; not now. He tried swallowing again, but his throat was too dry. Somehow, he kept walking, following the cloaked form before him. He felt like he was walking down a tunnel, one that kept growing smaller the further he walked. . . . 

Then Sierra stopped, and he was simply standing amid plain, stone colored tents marked with colored bands on an empty path with a fire burning just off the lane and a dark opening in the ground between two of the nearby tents. He could just make out steps before darkness swallowed them, the black impenetrable even to elven eyes. His brother was in there. . . . 

Movement near him kept him from dwelling on that thought, and he turned his head, following his companion as she moved over to the fire and lit a torch, the flames latching greedily onto the new piece of wood. Sierra moved it before her, almost like she was pointing at the opening, then moved forward and swept it to the side as she began walking down the steps. Elladan had to pry his own gaze away from the bright yellow-orange flame as he followed her down, the steps even narrower than he remembered. How ever _did_ the humans make it down them, clumsy as they were? He wondered if any had broken their necks attempting it. 

A nasty grin threatened to break out on his face and he chased it away, firmly refusing to waste any time on thoughts of these repulsive humans before he knew his brother was well. He would have plenty of time to curse them to all levels of hell once he and Elrohir were far away from this camp, and the opportunity to ensure they reached those levels once his brother and himself were well: he fully intended to return and send them there himself. But first things first. 

The last step came sooner than he expected yet had taken far too long to reach. Anxiety had spread through him, fear over what he would find. What if Elrohir was gone? What if he had died? What if they had somehow hurt him so bad that he was no longer the brother he remembered? What if-- but he no longer had time for "what ifs," having finally arrived at his destination. 

Blue eyes darted to the right-side wall, bare feet from the stairwell entrance, seeking out his brother's form. Relief washed through him at finding the dark, slumped shape, only now realizing how deeply he had feared his brother would be gone when he arrived. And on further inspection, he could also see he yet breathed. That revelation eased his own breathing considerably and, his immediate fears addressed, he swept his eyes on a more thorough search. The right side of Elrohir's face was bruised, starting about his temple and wrapping around his eye before tapering off at the hinge of his jaw. Yet more bruises marred his chest, from his shoulders down to his slender waist, some continuing around his sides. 

Aside from a split lip, bruises (very dark and highly colorful) were all he could see, and Elladan breathed a quiet sigh of relief that their captors had apparently not proceeded with their torture after he had been removed. He could not have stood to know that his brother had suffered while he was gone, even as he would not have been able to prevent it if he had. 

He stepped forward quickly, distantly noting that Sierra stayed where she was, apparently having decided to grant the brothers privacy for this first greeting, and was somewhat unsettled when Elrohir did not look up at his approach. The younger twin's head still hung against his chest, as if it was too heavy for him to hold up. 

"El," he murmured softly, tenderly reaching out to cup his brother's face. The pale skin was cool to the touch, and he felt a new jolt of fear tingle through him. Gently, he ran his fingers up the sides of Elrohir's face and slowly lifted his head, half ducking his own to get at look at the other's eyes. "Look at me, El." 

His breath froze in his chest when he met his twin's eyes. 

Torl stared ahead at the meeting place as he threaded through the camp, noting that nearly everyone was present. Nine circled the fire pit, with gaps between them where others should stand. Shirk was nowhere to be seen, but he rarely showed himself before all his lieutenants were present-- unless, of course, he had decided the absent ones were taking too long, then he would start the meeting and those who were not there were in worse trouble than they ever could have imagined. 

Gray eyes scanned the surrounding area, looking to see if the other two were nearby. He found Gilith, just moving around a tent into sight, but of the newly promoted Serv he found no trace. He tried to remember where the young man was posted and could not. Perhaps the youth had not heard the summons; It was easy to miss if one was not paying attention. It was a guarantee, though, that one never missed a summons twice. He wondered idly if the lieutenants would be introduced to a new member soon. 

Almost unconsciously, he slowed his pace, his gaze still locked onto his fellow Slyntari. Kelt had been the last one to hold that position. She had always found these meetings somewhat superfluous, a means of demonstrating power and control. _Disruptive,_ she had called it. Disruptive. . . . 

Without pausing to consider his actions, he grabbed a passing youth's arm, halting him in his tracks and pulling him around. It took him only a moment to recognize the young man. "Avis: I want you to go check on the Elves." 

"Sir?" 

He could imagine what the boy was thinking. "Make sure they're where they're supposed to be and that only those who are supposed to be there are there." 

"But, sir--" 

"Now, Avis." 

The young man swallowed. "Yes, sir." 

Torl did his best to ignore the feeling that he had just made a mistake. What, exactly, the mistake was he could not fathom, but what was done was done. He could no longer delay getting to this meeting. That much he was sure of. 

He picked up his pace, striding quickly the three dozen paces and stepping into his place just as the tent flap opened to reveal his lord. He pushed back his hood then followed his companions as they bowed, bringing his right fist over his heart before sweeping it out, palm down, as he rose. A slight wave of Shirk's hand acknowledged their show of respect and gave them permission to stand at ease. 

The man looked up, his gaze falling first on the massive black bird that perched on Shirk's shoulder. It's yellow eyes glared malevolently at each and every one of them over a sharp, curved beak. He resisted the urge to look down at the creature's feet, knowing what he would find-- wicked talons on strong feet-- and turned his gaze to his lord. 

The elf looked as lordly as ever, his robes immaculate and his bearing regal, commanding a power that seemed to radiate off him. His long blonde hair was pulled back from his face, ensuring everyone a clear view of those pale blue eyes that easily struck fear into friends and enemies alike; chips of ice that scanned them emotionlessly. 

"Our Master calls," Shirk began suddenly, his voice smooth and powerful, for their ears alone. His eyes bore into them. "It is almost time. What we have prepared for. In seven days, we will march. In seven days, we go to insure war. Prepare your groups." The lieutenants bowed. "Torl, Gilith, a word." 

The nine other Slyntari filed away, disappearing silently back into the camp, leaving only Torl and Gilith. He tried to ignore the anxiety that rose within him. It was rarely a good thing to be singled out; quite often it meant the soldier's death. He did not move as he waited for his lord to speak, and neither did Gilith, both staring at a place just past the elf's head. 

They waited as Shirk placed a small, rolled note into the cylinder attacked to the hawk's leg, then sent it on its way. "I have new orders for you," the elf said casually. "Gilith will assume responsibility for the Orcs and all that entails. He will lead them to opening positions and set them against the Rohirrim. Understood?" 

"Yes, my lord," both answered simultaneously. Shirk waved a dismissal and Gilith departed, bowing quickly. 

Torl swallowed against the renewed fear that rose within him. The orcs had been his responsibility. It was _never_ a good thing when your duty was striped. _Never_. He had known this day was coming, had known from the moment he had had to report his failure. He prayed the gods to make it quick. 

Shirk idly fingered something in his hand, gazing with an odd distractedness out over the camp. It was a moment before he spoke. "In three days, I will be leaving with a small advance group to meet with the Easterlings," he said calmly. "I am leaving you in charge. Make sure the main group leaves on schedule and that we are not compromised. Appoint a group to remain and watch the slaves." 

The elf stepped up beside him, even with his shoulder, looking past him at the camp. "If our guests have not arrived before I depart, I expect you to greet them properly. I suspect Nirt can contrive something suitable. See if you can't learn something from them. If not, no matter." 

"What shall I do with them, my lord?" he prompted when the other paused, slightly unsettled. He was in _charge_? 

"Kill them, of course," Shirk replied softly. "If they still refuse to talk when it comes time to leave, you may give them to the sorcerer." 

"As you wish, my lord." 

"Do not disappoint me, Torl." The ice cold eyes locked on his for the first time since this meeting began. 

He swallowed. "No, my lord." 

"You are in charge of the prisoners," Shirk continued, that nearly dreamy distraction resurfacing after the quiet menace. "Make sure Nirt does not kill them before it is time. Resume questioning the Elf. It is no longer feasible to wait for the other's recovery." 

"My lord? Is he strong enough?" 

"He will be, or he will no longer be our concern." 

"Yes, my lord," Torl said. Suddenly, he wanted this meeting to be over. He needed to go check on those confounded elves. 

Shirk waved his hand in dismissal. The man bowed quickly and turned away. No one approached him as he made purposefully for the elf's cell. 

For a moment he was back nearly six hundred years ago, in a cave under a mountain, looking into eyes that had always sparkled with boundless life and happiness, always been a source of joy to others, always comforted him when he was sad, and were now empty, endless pits of despair, the light that had made them shine gone, never to return. Then he was back before his brother, staring into dark blue eyes that had always been a match to his own, his heart breaking inside his chest. 

"El," he repeated, tears he refused to shed in this place distorting his voice. Empty orbs stared back at him, bereft of all that had been his brother. Despair watched him, cold and lifeless, a force all its own. "I'm here to get you out, brother. Please. _Uuma kelaya amin (Do not leave me)_." 

The smallest light appeared in the dark eyes, and Elrohir's lips moved soundlessly. _Brother?_ his eyes seemed to say. 

Elladan smiled slightly. _I'm here, my brother_, he returned. _I'm here._

Elrohir blinked, and that single movement erased the shadows from his eyes, leaving behind the brother Elladan knew. It was in that moment that the elder twin realized the crushing despair he had felt earlier had not been entirely his own: it had been his twin's. The younger smiled back. "How?" 

"Sierra has a plan," the elder answered, briefly glancing back at the girl who still stood a respectful distance away. Elrohir followed the glance. "It's not exactly set in stone, so you're going to need to be flexible." 

"You trust her?" Elrohir asked quietly, using elvish to mask the question. 

Elladan nodded. "Yes. We'll need to move quickly. Listen closely, brother; this is important: stay close to us and do not ask questions. Got it?" He paused, waiting for his twin to nod his acceptance, and braced himself for the next. He held his brother's eyes. "There's more: I want you to do whatever she tells you." 

His brother stiffened, alarm and protest lighting his eyes. Elladan stepped closer before he could speak, into his twin's space so they stood toe to toe. "_N'uma_, muindor _(No_, brother)_._ You must do this," he hissed in elvish. "Once we leave, you will not have time to hesitate. You have to agree now! You _must_ listen to her. Do what she says. Promise me, El. Promise me you'll follow her instructions." 

"And if she is a traitor?" Elrohir hissed back. "She could kill us!" 

"Shirk _will_ kill us!" he countered firmly. "And maybe worse. This is our best chance, El. You must see that." 

By the battle in his eyes, Elladan knew he did. His lips tightened into a thin line as he came to a decision he did not like. He nodded sharply, his eyes blazing. "Fine. I promise. But Elbereth help her if she betrays us." 

"Fine." The elder twin nodded and squeezed his brother's shoulder in comfort. He stepped back and turned, motioning Sierra forward to release his brother's bonds. But the girl was not looking at him, her head cocked to the side and a look of concentration on her face. He frowned. "Sierra--" 

She raised a hand, motioning him to silence. A frown pinched her brow before clearing, her face now set in grim satisfaction. She motioned him over to the wall by the staircase, putting down the torch in the middle of the floor as she moved to take up a position on the other side. He remembered his vow to do as she said and not ask questions just in time, and instead mirrored her position on the opposite side of the stairwell, his back pressed against the wall. Elrohir seemed to be taking his silence as a sign that he should do the same, but his lips were pressed tight in disapproval and he frowned at both of them. 

Elladan frowned questioningly at their rescuer, but Sierra was listening again, her head turned marginally his direction and her eyes slightly unfocused. She held herself ready. But ready for what? 

He glanced back at his brother, who shook his head minutely, then set himself to listening and caught what must have alerted Sierra: footsteps. They scraped slightly against stone before gaining the echo that said whoever it was was coming down the stairs. Alarmed, he looked at Sierra. She nodded, calm, then motioned him to stay put. He frowned even more at this, but obeyed-- even as every instinct inside him screamed at him to move. He listened as the footsteps drew closer and more light appeared from the stairwell. Elrohir shifted uneasily in his chains. 

It occurred to him that now would be an ideal time for the girl to betray them. Elrohir was still chained to the wall and he was trapped. Even if he did decide to leave his brother, he would still have to make it up the stairwell. A single shout would bring the entire camp down on him, and there was only one way to escape. Even if he killed Sierra and whoever was coming down to join them, he would never make it out alive. 

Strangely, that thought did not bother him, and as he met the girl's eyes, he found the notion of betrayal fall away. She was in this with them. Once again, she motioned him to stillness. 

The footsteps hesitated as they neared the lower landing, then proceeded more slowly. Elladan imagined he had caught sight of the light from their torch. His sharp hearing caught no sound of a weapon being drawn, though, which either meant he already had it out or he did not attribute the light to intruders. If he thought the latter, that would make things much easier. 

Elladan held his breath as the visitor reached the last step. He could see the other's torch. Then the being stepped into sight and he could see it was a young man, younger than Estel-- perhaps the same age as the girl-- and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The boy continued forward a couple feet, eyeing the torch with a frown before halting and sweeping his own to either side. He saw Elrohir still chained to the wall and dropped his hand from the sword. 

Sierra moved almost before he realized it, silently approaching the man from behind. Five steps put her at his back. An audible _crack_ split the air, then he was falling, and the torch with him. The girl caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him a little to the side, but the torch continued unabated and it sputtered when it struck the stone, nearly going out. It took Elladan a moment to realize the girl had snapped the boy's neck, and by that time both man and torch lay still on the ground. 

Sierra stood. "Take off his cloak," she ordered before casually stepping over the youth's outstretched arm as she headed back towards Elrohir. She pulled out a key as she walked, and he moved to do as she bid. 

Elrohir watched her approach, stunned, his mind still catching up with what he had just seen. "You could have just knocked him out," he observed darkly, somewhat unnerved by the ease with which she had killed the boy. To his mind, it simply meant she would have no qualms about killing them; and in his mind, the dark haired lad looked impossibly like Estel, his vibrant eyes going glassy as his neck snapped. "He hadn't seen anything." 

"It was kinder to kill him," she answered. She grabbed the cuff that bound his right hand and jabbed the key into the opening. Elrohir held back a wince. "Shirk would have tortured him first and still killed him." 

"You know this for certain?" Elladan demanded. He had gotten the cloak off and now held it gingerly in his hands. He never would have thought the death of an enemy would disturb him so badly, but it was hard to see the boy as an enemy when his pale, glassy eyes looked so innocent and his sword had never raised against himself or his brother. 

"Yes," Sierra replied curtly, sticking the key in the second lock. It popped free and she turned, repocketing the key. Beside her, Elrohir rubbed his wrists, wincing slightly. They were raw and bloody. "Had he been earlier or later, he would have been fine, but Shirk would never let him live after letting you escape. Give him the cloak," she added, motioning Elladan to give it to Elrohir. "His life has made our exit easier." 

Elladan frowned at her as he handed the cloak to his brother. Her casual acceptance of the lad's death irked him. He held the dark fabric after Elrohir slipped his first arm in so he could more easily reach the second. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Three in, three out," she answered impatiently as she picked up both torches. "It won't matter if we leave at the same time and head in the same direction." 

"Why would it matter anyway?" Elladan persisted, remembering the deserted lane before their descent. "Nobody saw us come down." 

"No less than five people saw us enter this cell," Sierra countered coldly. "Just because the all-seeing, all-knowing Elf did not see them does not mean they were not there. Do you really think Shirk would leave his prisons unguarded?" 

Truthfully, no, but. . . "If he thought escape impossible." 

"He is not an Orc. He does not take security for granted, even in his own lands." 

Elladan met her gaze squarely, staring unflinchingly into her coldly sparkling eyes. He read nothing but dead certainty there, certainty born of experience. . . . He nodded shortly. They still had little time. There was no telling when someone would come looking for the boy and he intended to be long gone by the time they did. He could puzzle out this girl's past later. Elrohir seemed to be of the same opinion. 

Wordlessly, she passed one of the torches to Elrohir, who accepted it with a brief nod, his face expressionless. He nodded too when the girl's gaze turned to him. He was ready, more than ready, to leave this place far behind. When she pulled her hood over her head, they followed suit. 

It did not take long for them to climb the stairs and reemerge under the dark night sky. An icy breeze cut through them as they stepped into the open. Sierra stepped immediately over to the fire and dropped her torch among the other fiery brands, and Elrohir once more followed suit. Then, with a somewhat irritated gesture to follow, Sierra stalked back the way they had come, the twins right behind her. 

Feeling both more and less at ease than he had before, Elladan walked steadily beside his twin as they followed the girl. Getting Elrohir, he suspected, had been the easy part of this operation, especially if they were being watched. While two healers (at least, he assumed that was what they were thought to be) and a random guard could walk between the med tent and the prison cell unquestioned, he doubted they could simply leave the camp without alerting everyone in it that something was wrong. Of course, that presumed they were being followed. He wished he knew what their helper had in mind. Instead, all he could do was follow and hope that Sierra's plans turn out better than Estel's. 

The tents were just as nondescript from this direction as they had been the other direction, but he had (almost unconsciously) counted the number of tents they passed, so it came as something of a surprise when Sierra did not lead them back between the fourth and fifth tent on the left. Instead, they walked straight past it. Another couple of tents and they had passed the med tent completely. She was not taking them straight to the mountains, was she? He eyed them uneasily. 

But Sierra stopped, four past the med tent, and walked to a tent on the right. Holding the flap open, she gestured imperiously for them to go inside. Had he not known better, he would have thought them in trouble and about to get the coldest dressing-down of their life. Perhaps that was the point. 

Elladan lead the way inside, with Elrohir ducking in behind him. The girl came last, never once looking to see who was watching. The twins watched her, waiting for some indication about what was going on. She put back her hood. 

The elder relaxed. He pushed back his own hood. "What now?" he asked quietly. 

"Tend your brother," she replied, handing him the bag before moving further into the tent. 

"Whose is this?" Elrohir questioned looking around. He slipped out of the cloak without protest and sat to let his brother tend him. 

The girl shifted something slightly before moving it back, the motion idle and pointless. She seemed to be looking for something. "No one's," she answered after a pause. "It's last owner died and it has yet to be reassigned. Until then, everyone's free to use it." 

Elrohir nodded as if satisfied. He looked at his brother and grinned roguishly. Impossibly, it felt like they were elflings again, sneaking around in the dead of night determined not to get caught by any of the adults. But instead of getting a lecture and being sent to bed upon discovery, this time they would be tortured and eventually killed. Elladan shook his head, a faint grin on his lips, and focused on binding his brother's wrists. 

"I'd thought I lost you," the younger murmured into the silence, his words once again concealed in elvish. "When I woke and you were gone. After what we had just gone through, I could not imagine any other reason for why you would not be there. I felt terrible and I imagined the worst." 

Elladan swallowed hard. "I was taken to the healer," he explained in kind. "One of my ribs had punctured my lung. Apparently, they weren't quite ready to lose one of their prisoners--" 

"Both," Elrohir interrupted grimly. 

"--and had to take steps to rectify the mistake." 

"I'm glad they did." 

"So am I," Elladan agreed quietly. "How do you feel? Do you want anything for the pain?" 

"I am well." Aside from the bruises, he looked well, his eyes bright. "Just a little sore. The headache and stuff are mostly worn off now." 

"Are you sure?" 

"His system's had time to clear more of the toxin they used when beating you because he hasn't been given any others," Sierra spoke up quietly from where she sat near the foot of the bed. "He'll tire quicker than usual for the next couple of days, though. Speak up if it becomes a problem." 

Elrohir nodded. "What are you doing?" 

She had cleared away an inch of sand from a half-foot wide square and was determinedly prying along an edge of it. Then-- even as they watched-- part of it came up, revealing a small hole in the solid floor. She pulled something out of it they could not see and quickly tucked it away inside her robes before resealing the hole and shifting the sand back over the top. 

She stood. "Ready?" 

Both nodded and they quickly walked back out into the camp. A few others were walking about now, and Elladan's hand twitched toward his waist. But he did not have a weapon, and if they were discovered now, they would be in serious trouble. None of the robed figures, however, paid them any mind, and they passed among them, mixing, and made their way to another tent, this one set somewhat apart from the others near the edge. 

Sierra stopped them just short of it, and they hovered nearby, pretending to be in conversation. The girl indicated something to their right and Elladan glanced briefly in that direction before nodding. At that moment, three people emerged from the tent she was keeping a surreptitious eye on. They walked past them unconcernedly (Elladan heard one of them say "Blimey, it's cold out," and another "I'm starved. Let's see what kinda chow they got" before the trio moved out of earshot. 

That, apparently, was what Sierra had been waiting for, for she now lead them around the tent, keeping to the shadows as she moved them slowly away from the camp. Elladan could see where the guards stood a little more than two dozen steps away until a twisted outcropping blocked them from sight. Here, she motioned them to stop. _Stay here_ followed, and both twins exchanged glances as she moved away from them. 

Footsteps, more than just their rescuer's, reached their ears moments later. They seemed to be approaching and were too cautious to simply be late-night strollers. Elladan exchanged another glance with Elrohir, the same question in his brother's eyes. _What should we do?_

_I don't know_. They waited in tense silence, listening intently for some sign of where this new group was going while trying to keep tabs on Sierra. The former was easy as the men, while walking quietly, were not actively trying to keep them from hearing them, but the latter proved impossible. Nearly as soon as she had left their sight, the girl's footsteps had vanished. 

Elladan peered into the darkness, trying to pierce the shadows without moving from the shelter of their outcropping. Giving themselves away by being careless was not a thought the elder relished, yet his desire to know what was going on objected fiercely to staying still. Then there was the question of what Sierra was doing. Assuming she had continued the same way she had been going, she would intercept with the people they could hear coming. That was almost certainly bad. Thoughts of betrayal tried to creep back into his thoughts as he considered that she could be meeting with this new group, and she was with them alone. 

Then the footsteps stopped. There was a scuffle, like more than one person tried to move quickly. A thud followed, then more scuffling, and then there was silence. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged another glance. They shifted uncomfortably. 

Suddenly, Sierra reappeared among the stones. She motioned them forward. They wove among the rock formations that made up this section and emerged on a well-traveled path. Three bodies lay unmoving in the middle of it. Elladan could not tell if they were dead or not. The girl motioned to him, then one of the bodies and muttered, "Quickly." It took him only a moment to discern what she meant. He had only to look at the cloaks to figure it out. 

Only one was of the style she wore, his a match for hers. The other two wore the somewhat simpler one that Elrohir had donned. He imagined the difference denoted rank, but he still could not determine what the significance was. Layers upon layers, he imagined, but he pushed those thoughts aside for the moment and simply shed his cloak and deftly stripped one of the two simple ones from the nearest body. It, too, appeared to have suffered a broken neck. He decided not think just yet on where this child had gotten so good at such a task. 

He slipped it on quickly with Elrohir's help and raised the hood. Sierra was staring back at the camp. A tone, something like the ringing of a bell but too clear, sounded briefly. 

She turned. "Come," she ordered, a note of urgency in her voice. She strode away quickly. Elrohir moved up next to him and handed him a sword and scabbard, another already secured about his waist. Elladan took it and followed, idly wondering if something had finally gone wrong. 

Torl approached the elf's underground cell quickly. He scanned the area closely for Avis but did not see the boy anywhere. More than half an hour had passed since he sent him on his way; even if the boy had walked leisurely-- Torl knew he had _not_-- he still would have made it here, had time to check at the med tent, and arrived back here by now. Avis had been around long enough to know Torl would want to talk to him. The lad either should have found him by now or been waiting outside the cell for his arrival. That neither was the case troubled him. 

One of the Watchers noticed his glances and must have thought Torl was looking for him for he hurried out and met him before he could reach the cell. "My lord," he greeted respectfully. 

The gray-eyed man looked at him, trying to place a name. He had never had must to do with the Watchers, but Kelt had always been interested in them. . . . _Ah_. "Dirrick, has Avis been here?" 

"Ah . . . yes, lord Torl," the other replied after pausing to check his memory. Torl almost winced at the title. "He went in shortly after the Healers and all three left soon after." 

"Healers?" he questioned. 

"The lady Akin and her helper, Dane, I believe." 

"And they left together?" 

"Yes, my lord," the man replied. If he saw any purpose to these questions, he did not let on. 

Torl stared at him, fighting hard against jumping to conclusions. He persisted, "Did anyone see their faces?" 

"No, lord. They had their hoods up." Torl could almost feel his urge to continue and say that was not uncommon, but he had obviously had enough experience with the Slyntari elite-- Shirk-- to know it was better to hold his tongue unless specifically asked for extraneous information. The elf lord was less likely to kill you for not talking than for wasting his time. 

He nodded. He had expected as much. "Stay here," he ordered sharply. 

The Watcher stared uncertainly as Torl strode away, his cloak billowing behind him. He grabbed a torch in passing, barely pausing as he pulled the flaming brand from the fire, and continued down the stairs, his steps a rapid tattoo that sounded like an almost constant hum. (He would have taken them two or three at a time, but it was a bad idea to miss any of these steps-- you usually missed the one you were aiming for, too.) The jumping light of the torch flared out before him, illuminating the shadow just off the foot of the stairs easily. 

Torl skipped the last four steps entirely, touching down on the hard stone floor and letting his momentum carry him the remaining three strides to the dark heap before him. He crouched next to it, and pushed it slightly. Balanced precariously on its side, the still form rolled immediately onto its back, the head of dark hair rolling limply before coming to a halt, the sightless eyes pointed at the ceiling. 

The man went very still, his hand hovering where it was as he stared blankly at the boy before him. Pale green eyes, so pale they looked almost gray, sparkled in the light from the flame. From the lad's expression, he probably never know what hit him. His attacker had killed him before he even realized they were there-- He did not need to look to know the elf was gone. 

Torl looked anyway. The empty cuffs hung before him accusingly. 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Three had left, Akin and her helper and the elf-- but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Akin was no traitor-- taciturn and bitter, but no traitor-- which meant there was a good possibility that Dane had not been here either. That left only the question of whether or not Akin and Dane were dead. He thought it likely considering Avis's condition, especially if the intruders had come through the med tent. _All three left soon after. . . ._

Spinning on his heel, Torl charged back up the stairs. He emerged at the top to find Dirrick waiting exactly where he had left him, both more and less anxious than when he had first started questioning him. "You're sure they came from the med tent?" he demanded before he had even reached the other's side. He carelessly tossed the torch towards the fire-- someone else would ensure it did not catch anything else on its hungry flames. "Someone saw them leave?" 

"Yes, my lord," the young Watcher reported. "Kelin reported it, sir." 

Torl nodded. He had expected as much. "Sound the alert. The Elf has escaped. Send someone to the med to see if the other Elf is there. Report back to me immediately. MOVE!" 

Dirrick jumped as if he had been burned, then motioned frantically to someone out of sight. Another young man, possibly even younger than Avis, emerged from one of the nearby tents at a run. Torl watched him, but he already knew what the youth would find. A clear tone, made with a special horn, sounded through the camp. All around them people began lowering their hoods. He paid them no mind. 

The man brushed his hair irritably from his face. He had just been put in charge of the prisoners and already he had lost them! "Search the grounds," he snapped. "Find out where they went." 

"Yes, sir," Dirrick saluted. He disappeared so quickly an elf would have had a hard time marking him. Not that Torl cared. 

The dark-haired human barely glanced at him, instead trying to focus, figure out if there was anything else he needed to do. Nothing came to mind. Nothing . . . which meant it was time to report to Shirk. Every emotion locked from his face, he once more began winding through the camp in search of his lord. 

In the back of his mind, he kept asking how this could have happened; how someone could have snuck into their camp, stolen two prisoners, and snuck right back out without anyone being the wiser. He kept running over the facts he knew, again and again, trying to find the answer. 

Only one came to mind-- Kelt. 

She moved quickly over the rocky terrain. Planting a false trail when the Slyntari would probably not pay it any attention was only so much wasted effort, but as there was nothing more she could do except wait while the one elf tended the other, it was time spent well enough. 

They had had to stop barely half a mile out from the camp when the injured elf-- the more injured elf, anyway-- fell, twisting his ankle and nearly bursting his stitches. Tremors, similar to the ones suffered after a fright, had wracked his form and she was hard-pressed to identify what was causing it. He had been subjected to a fairly lethal combination of drugs, after all. The elf's brother was treating him, having refused to let her anywhere near him, and she had disappeared to give them a few moments of peace and solitude. She had a feeling all their efforts would be in vain anyway. 

Kalya paused, braced against a flinty outcropping and glanced back at Camp Death. Dozens of people moved about within it, nearly three dozen of them disappearing inside tents for a few moments before reemerging and moving on. Standard search after an alert, she knew. It would not be long before that alert was upgraded to an alarm and the searchers were directed to expand their search. From there, it would not take long for them to be found. They were not nearly far enough away and their adversaries could move more quickly than they could. 

She sighed and continued walking. The elf was strong, but after what he had suffered he was not nearly strong enough. Anyone could see that Stitches was not capable of running from the Slyntari, even his brother, though the dark-haired elf denied it most fiercely. They would both go or neither would. That determination could be clearly seen in his eyes; the desire that he would leave visible in his brother's, along with the resignation that it would never happen. 

Before the end of this night, she was sure she would be forced to watch as she failed again-- only this time, that failure would cost two lives and maybe more. That Shirk would enjoy torturing the twin sons of Elrond just for the fun of it, just to make his old adversary pay, was a given. He hated the Lord of Imladris enough that the pain it would give the other elf would be more than reason enough to kidnap the two and torture them. But she was sure there had to be another reason: why go to all the effort if personal satisfaction was all that was gained? 

But what else? Inciting the elves to abandon their passive regard of the affairs of men was hardly something Sauron wanted. A fading people they may be, but his plans were not yet advanced enough that the elves could not destroy them if they were incited to fight with men once more. And if she was right in her belief that the Slyntari were preparing to mobilize-- but mobilize what? The Slyntari did not go to war. They only started them. Who was to fight? 

She sucked her teeth in frustration. There were only two kingdoms of men in opposition to Sauron that were worthy of notice: Gondor and Rohan. The old kingdom was busy rebuilding, strengthening its walls, consolidating its power under the Stewardship of Ecthelion. Would Sauron want that to go forth? An attack on Gondor, this time from the west. . . . But no, that would be folly. Any attack on Gondor from the west would be sure to draw the attention of Rohan, and then he would simply be facing a unified kingdom of men. The Dark Lord was not so foolish as to do that. 

An attack on Rohan, then. Gondor was not likely to be able to send aid even if it was asked for unless she misjudged the beleaguered kingdom's strength. She doubted Sauron did. But where did the elven twins come into an attack on Rohan? No trickery on the part of the Dark Lord would convince the horselords to attack the elves, nor the elves to attack the horselords. Information, perhaps? But what information could elves who resided in Rivendell and rode with the rangers of the north have of a kingdom so far south of where they dwelt? Unless the information Shirk wanted did not pertain to the coming attack at all. 

They resided in Rivendell. Long had the descendants of Isildur been sheltered in that elven haven. Did he perhaps seek to discover the identity of the last heir? It was a thought she had not previously considered, but it was possible. Knowing what she did, she could not imagine either elf giving up their foster brother to Shirk so she could not imagine how he hoped to gain their cooperation if that was indeed his aim. Unless he misjudged their stubbornness and hoped to use each against the other? 

Kalya frowned, and was still frowning when she came back into sight of the elven twins. They were in the same spots that they had occupied when she left, one braced against a nearby stone and the other facing him; Stitches looked even worse, somehow, than when she had left, an open water flask braced in his lap. They whispered together and did not seem to notice her approach. 

Taking advantage of their distraction, she chose a rock some feet from them and settled herself against it where she could watch them and their surroundings both, especially as it seemed neither twin was paying over much attention to their surroundings. Curse Shirk to whatever dark hell would torment him most-- perhaps a small room of stark white; The light would drive him bonkers. 

Stitches noticed her fist. His somewhat glazed eyes fixed on her intently from beneath half-closed lids. "Were your efforts fruitful?" he inquired softly. His brother looked up quickly to see who he was talking to and did not quite relax upon seeing her. She had a feeling he did not like that she could sneak up on him. 

"I do not think they will find our trail," she answered. She did not add that she doubted they would need to follow it in the first place to find them. If either of her companions thought the same, they did not voice it. Silence fell over the trio. 

The wind howled eerily around them as it forced its way around and through the various rock formations they crept through. The first trees-- pale, unhealthy looking things-- were still several miles off. They grew sparsely for around a mile until they reached the river, then grew more closely, close and numerous enough to offer shelter. She had hoped to make it there, where it was easier to lose or neutralize their opponents. There was not a hope of that now. 

She glanced back at the elves. "Perhaps as you know my name I might be granted the honor of yours," she said, more to break the silence than anything else. 

"You do not know who we are?" the hovering one asked sharply, his suspicion heightened. Whatever bothered him about her, her question seemed to have exacerbated it. 

Smothering her irritation as best she could (those damned posturing sessions over dinner among the Slyntari finally coming in handy), she answered lightly. "I know you are the twin sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, but that does not mean I know your names." 

Stitches chuckled (possibly at his brother's expression) and lightly brushed his chest with his first two fingers. "I am Elladan. My brother" --indicating his scowling mirror image-- "is Elrohir." 

"Well met," she murmured, inwardly comparing what she had heard of them to what she was confronted with. Had she guessed, she would have reversed them. 

"Then you have only heard of us," Elrohir spoke up suddenly. "It is rare for one to risk one's life for a stranger." 

_Really?_ was her first reaction. _Does Aragorn know that?_ But she refrained from saying it. That would only lead to uncomfortable questions she did not wish to answer, and regardless what Aragorn may or may not have told them she doubted revealing who she was would put the younger twin at ease. 

Instead, she said evenly, "You mean to say I have an ulterior motive for rescuing you." 

"I doubt you risked the wrath of the Slyntari simply out of the goodness of your own heart." 

"No," she agreed calmly, catching the dark glance Elladan sent his brother though Elrohir himself seemed to have missed it. "But I will not betray you." 

"Then why did you help us?" He persisted, ignoring her last comment, and also ignoring his twin, who despite the rather pointed nudge he had just administered looked rather like he desired to hit him. 

She smiled blithely. "Enemy of an enemy or friend of a friend, which ever makes you happy." She stood. "Shall we?" 

Elladan nodded, pushing himself to his feet. Elrohir helped him silently, still glaring, but it was a more reserved kind of glare found mostly in his eyes, which were dark and mistrustful. He ignored her to help guide his twin along the somewhat treacherous path she had indicated earlier. 

_Elves_, Kalya sighed. She bent down to pick up pack before following them, tucking the water bottle back in as she went. Already she could tell this was going to be a simply marvelous experience, the sarcasm of her own thoughts rivaling the younger twin's opinion of her "goodness." 

Barely ten minutes later, the alarm sounded. 

". . . sent to check the med tent. A search has been organized for the eastern quadrant. We should hear back something soon," Torl finished. He kept to himself the belief that the search would do no good. He watched the activity before him critically, overly aware of the elf standing beside him doing the same. 

"Yes," Shirk agreed easily, his voice ending on a hiss. 

Bare moments passed, with twenty-three people entering twenty-three separate tents and fourteen leaving others, before anyone approached the aloof pair standing outside the action. The lad, perhaps seventeen with lots of freckles and pale skin, had obviously been running, and was panting despite his efforts to control his breathing as he stopped before them. "My lords," he bowed. 

"What did you find?" Torl prompted, a glance at his lord revealing that the other would say nothing. He was in charge of the prisoners and, thus, in charge of conducting their recovery. 

"The Elf is gone, my lord," the other said with an anxious flicker-glance to Shirk. Apparently, he had decided to start with the worst news and work his way up. His hands picked nervously at the hem of his cloak. "Both Akin and Dane are dead. The reserve healer--" (the reserve of the reserve, actually, as Kelt had been the reserve) "--estimates they have been dead for more than two hours. No one has entered or left since the ersatz Akin and Dane." He opened his mouth like he would say more, but closed it again without saying a word. Probably for the best as it nearly certainly would have started with "I think," and that was always dangerous among the young. 

Torl nodded. He had been right, then. "Very well," he responded gravely. "Sound the alarm." He watched the other leave trying not to think about what this meant. 

"You seem disturbed, lieutenant," Shirk observed calmly, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

"Yes, sir," he replied in the clipped military tones that gave nothing away. Lying was out of the question, but there was no reason to give the elf more to work with than necessary. Maybe he would even miss something. . . . 

"Their escape bothers you," the fair-haired being prompted. 

Inwardly, Torl sighed. It was not often that the lord of the Slyntari wanted to hear his lieutenant's thoughts, but when he did it was almost always when the man did not want to share them. Elves seemed to be able to pick those moments with remarkable ease. 

"Yes, my lord," he answered. "Their escape could conceivably ruin our plans. If the Lord of Rivendell ever--" 

"The Lord of Rivendell will never discover our plans until it is already too late and the only thing he can do is watch," Shirk interrupted him imperiously, dismissing the notion. More importantly to Torl, he had been distracted. "Even if the sons of Elrond were to make it all the way back to Imladris to report to their father, nothing would change that. Regardless, you need not worry on it. Neither Elf will so much as cross the mountains." 

"As you say, my lord." He nearly winced as the words passed his mouth. If his lord was in a bad mood. . . . 

But the response was mild, almost indulgent, like a parent speaking to a precocious child who thought only he knew best. "You do not believe me." 

Yes or no would never do. He took a deep breath. "There are rumors of Elven strength and resilience, my lord. I find it difficult to believe bruises would slow them down. And even the one's broken ribs and pierced lung should not do much to hinder them, I think, especially as that was well on its way to recovery." 

"On their own, they would not. A mild nuisance, nothing more. But you are forgetting the drugs that still run in their veins. One, I believe, will find it very difficult to go anywhere at all." Cruel amusement trickled through Shirk's words. His visage was set in darkly satisfied lines. 

"You think the drugs will keep them from escaping?" Torl could not resist prompting. 

Shirk's face set. "On the contrary, Torl: I know it. They will not make the Lefnui, and by the end of this night we will have gained a fair prize." 

Prudence warned him not to ask, but an odd dread loosened his tongue. "My lord?" he posed, keeping his tone curious, questioning. Perhaps his luck would hold. . . . 

Shirk seemed to barely register his presence. "Come morning," he continued softly, lethally, "the Elven twins will be ours. And we will no longer need to search for one who left our company too soon."


	17. Strangers

Hi, everyone! I'm back and a month hasn't passed yet, aren't you excited! Lol. Okay, first things first: 

I haven't read through this to make sure I haven't made an stupid errors spell-check doesn't catch, so please forgive all mistakes. Having been actually reading it while I was typing it, I don't think there are very many of them, but I never think I've spelled many words wrong either, so. . . . Just know they're there and please try to ignore them. 

Second (because I'm paranoid, not because there's been a problem) in light of that note posted about no tolerance in mis-rating stories: should you contest any rating I place on a story, please tell me. I really don't want the first time I hear about it to be when they terminate my account. I'm really not attatched to any of my ratings, so I really don't mind changing them if you think they should be different. So let me know. 

Thirdly, should any of my characters start sliding towards the realm of Mary-Sue, let me know so I can kill them. g Kidding, but I do want to know so I can fix it. None of my characters are supposed to be Mary-Sue's. I hate them too much to want to write one. 

Fourthly, in celebration of my hundredth review does a little dance I have decided to remove "But Ada" from the story selection you are all so kindly voting on. issues pointed looks to silent readers Those of you who were looking forward to reading it, don't groan. I have decided to make it a gift. As soon as I get time to write it (perhaps sooner rather than later if the next chapter doesn't cooperate) I will be posting it for your reading enjoyment. Well, for those of you who _wanted_ to read it.My way of saying thanks for your wonderful reviews as there is really no other way I can. 

Also, should you find it interesting, I am thinking of writing a story titled "Aragorn's No Good Rotten Day," something of a companion piece to Sio's "Legolas' No Good Rotten Day" which should prove interesting. I'm planning on posting it in the event DOP gets 150 reviews. What do you think? g 

What else? Oh, yes. Does anyone know if, when you delete a chapter, it deletes the reviews? I'm thinking of combining several of the earlier chapters to make them longer, but I don't want to do it before I know what it will do. Fifteen chapters is far too long to get to the good stuff, and we are finally getting to the good stuff. Lots of action coming up. I just know it's going to give me fits. I'll be bald by the end of this story. Lol. 

Ooh, I had an interesting thought before I started writing this chapter. About half-way through the other one (it's when I usually start thinking about the next chapter, funnily enough) I turned my mind to getting Aragorn and Legolas to Caivern. And I thought, "Oh no! Aragorn isn't wearing anything but a cloak and his undershorts!" So I stood him before me and took a different cloak and tied it about his waist with a length of rope and wrapped it up between his legs, tucking it into the waist, forming a sort of really big diasper that hung down about to his knees. giggles Then I looked at him and debated improvising a shirt, trying to figure out how I could do it in the story with what they had on hand, and pictured him walking up to the bar and greeting the barkeeper. laughs harder I could just see him opening the door to this filthy and bedraggled ranger, no shirt, a cloak rapped around his shoulders, and another around his waist and pulled up between his legs, said legs showing down to the greenish ankle-high elven boots-- lol-- and I couldn't decide if he would faint or laugh. And I thought, "oh no no no no, he can't go in there like that,"was just beginning to panic, when I remembered he had his clothes, that he had in fact redonned them before beginning their ride across Minhiriach. smiles self-depricatingly See what the mind can do when allowed to roam free? 

Lol. Just thought I'd share. I hoped maybe you'd get as much of a laugh out of it as I did. Oh, boy. I need a break. 

Well, I can't think of anything else that desperately needs saying, so on with the story. Review responses to last chapter are at the bottom. laughs Bottom. Oh, bad bad. I'm going to go before I do or say something I regret. 

Enjoy. Please review.Picture Aragorn, son of Arathorn, solemn ranger of the north, heir to the throne of Gondor, approaching a stranger half-naked. glol.****

****

**Chapter 17**

He reached a ledge and paused, hesitating just long enough to shift his weight to his other leg, before half-stepping half-jumping into the darkness below. A second passed, maybe two, then he slammed into unyielding stone, expected and unexpected, and half stumbled at the jolt. He reached out in the darkness to catch himself and gripped his brother's arm, steadying his balance as he ran. Another drop appeared, barely in time to shift his weight again, and then they were angling left, moving quickly around a jutted stone like a finger pointing to the eastern sky, then there was another drop. 

Elladan caught the briefest flicker of shadow against dark night before the ledge was upon him-- too close. He was moving too quickly to shift to the right foot-- tried anyway, his feet scraping stone, but he could not do it. 

Belatedly, he tried to push off with the opposite foot, felt it catch half-on, and slipped, tumbling badly off-balance into the darkness. The ground rushed up to him quicker than expected and his already tender ankle buckled at the force of the impact, sprawling him forward with his momentum. He would have cursed had he the breath. 

He slammed into something yielding and felt slender arms grab his biceps as he stumbled forward another two steps. He could hear the other's steps scratch against rock as the person hurriedly backpedaled to keep from overbalancing. He tried to help by regaining his feet, but he could not seem to get them to move fast enough. 

Suddenly, he heard a _thud_, then slammed solidly into his rescuer. He heard Sierra gasp as her wind was knocked out of her, along with the grunt she tried to hold back. He back away from her, not quite steady, and felt his twin's hand press comfortingly into his back, steadying him. 

"You all right?" Elrohir questioned worriedly, more concern about him than their young companion. 

They had been running since the alarm sounded, a shrill whistle with a rattle like dry bones, running across the uneven slope on the eastern side of camp. Not as steep as the southern slope, which would drop one in the river with nothing but a scream and a shower of rocks, it was nevertheless just as treacherous in the pitch black of night without even the stars for company. Neither elf dared brighten their glow for fear of drawing their hunters, and even elven eyes could see only so much without light. The torches that marked the presence of their enemies seared his eyes. 

"Fine," he answered, struggling to catch his breath without further aggravating his stitches. Bright dots flashed before his eyes, but he blinked and stepped further away, his gaze locked on the slight silhouette of Sierra that he could just make out against the stone. 

The girl stepped forward, away from the rock, and said, "Come!" She, at least, was apparently of no mind to press him about his breath. Elrohir was not so complacent. He could feel his brother's eyes boring into his as their guide started forward again and ignored them in favor of focusing on the rapidly shifting landscape. Parts of it merely slanted, encouraging its traveler to run; others undulated, like a sea caught and frozen for all eternity-- the dark did not always reveal such inconsistencies, causing many a stumble among the twins. 

The parts that troubled Elladan the most, however, were the drop-offs, suddenly and inexplicable, separated by random intervals, try appeared out of nowhere, varying in depth from a bare six inches-- just enough for the bottom to be left in shadow-- to approximately three feet. It was as if some insane architect had decided to put in stairs but could not decide how big to make them and instead decided to use all sizes. 

Thrown randomly into that were jutting structures of all shapes and sizes that did nothing (to Elladan's racing mind) except throw even deeper shadows to further confuse the depth of the ground. How they could throw shadows when there was no light to block (all the torches were yet too far) was a mystery to him, yet he could swear the darkness increased around them on whatever side they chose to pass. Sierra did not seem to mind. 

Indeed, if she gave the dark any mind at all it was not apparent. She did not trip on the uneven ground, nor did the drop-offs ever catch her by surprise. She seemed to know exactly where they were going, exactly how to get there, and exactly what obstacles were placed where that would hinder them getting there. A good thing to be sure, but one that was unnerving Elrohir. After all, there was no way she could know the territory so well if this was her first visit. The only way her knowledge could be so perfect was if she had tried this path many times or had a perfect memory beyond the ability of men. 

For his part, he did not find the question of _how_ as troubling or intriguing as _why_. Why would a young lady have such familiarity with these dark lands? He could think of only two answers: either she was an escaped slave, or she had once been a Slyntari-- he knew Shirk would never abide idle wanderers around his camp; to him, her knowledge suggested the latter. But why would she leave? _Because they are foul_, he answered, but there were plenty of beings who served Sauron through free will (Shirk was a brilliant example himself). So why were her original reasons for serving him suddenly not good enough, and why would she risk her life to help them when by her own admission she did not know them? 

He panted hard as he struggled to keep up with the demanding pace Sierra had set while still keeping adequate attention on where he was putting his feet. The uncertainties made his steps heavier than normal. He wanted to stop, want to rest, but the torches drew steadily nearer, crowding in from the southwest. It did not help that the land was now slanting downwards from two directions: north and west, trying to funnel them down, conveniently placing them nearer their enemies. 

"They boast their presence in the south and the west," Sierra suddenly observed, her tone thoughtful. "But they are absent to the north and east." 

"Behind us and below us," Elrohir agreed from somewhere near at hand, his voice startling Elladan with its proximity though he had known his brother was close. "They chase us." 

"Forcing us northeast," she replied grimly. 

Elladan's head came up, catching something in her voice that even his weakness and fatigue could not distract him from. "You think it a trap." 

"A trap?" Elrohir echoed. "Then they do not chase us, but _drive_ us-- towards what?" 

"It's curious there is no pursuit from the north," she said instead, ignoring both of their comments. 

Elrohir responded by ignoring hers. "Do they hope to trap us in the mountains? They must know snow would not hinder us." 

"I doubt they will let us get that far," he replied distractedly. He directed his next question to Sierra: "Should there by Men in the north?" 

"Shirk always posts Men in the mountains. Patrols, mostly; but there are enough of them stationed there that they could pose a serious threat." She paused, and though he still could not see her well, he knew she looked around. "They expect us to continue east." 

"How do you know?" Elrohir demanded. 

"Because it is easier to loose them there than in the mountains." 

"So we go north." That seemed the logical choice, but it they saw it, then Shirk probably saw it too. 

Elladan cocked his head. "Unless they expect us to go north instead upon realizing our route is expected." 

"Which makes it more prudent to go east," Sierra finished. "For those reasons along, I would head south or west, but south and we do naught but trap ourselves. West, we simply walk back in Shirk's open arms." 

"He is at camp?" 

"He is always at camp. Watching. Waiting." 

There was that familiarity again, that experience. Resentment, he heard, and anger. He wondered if Elrohir heard it. _The enemy of my enemy_. . . If he was right, and Shirk had once been her ally, he wondered what had made her his enemy. 

He was so caught up in his musings, he almost missed it when they starting slowing down. He would have run right past them if Elrohir had not caught his arm. He frowned at himself for the lapse, and looked before him to find another dark abyss. This one stretched for nearly a dozen feet before ending at another ledge that rose nearly equal to the one they stood on. 

Sierra walked forward and sat with her feet dangling over the ledge. She twisted back to look at them. "Careful. It's a fair drop." 

Without another word, she turned partly away from them, leaned forward, and disappeared over the ledge, her hands catching the lip to slow her fall. Then she dropped, landing solidly on her feet some distance below. It did not sound far, and Elladan guessed it could not be longer than a ten foot drop. 

Elrohir stepped up to the ledge, then looked back. "About eight feet, I think. You shouldn't have any trouble." 

It did not take much to figure out that Elrohir wanted him to go first. His eyes narrowed. But for the fact that they had little time, he would have argued with his twin. Instead, he moved forward and took his own seat on the ledge. A quick glance down to judge the distance for himself, then he was duplicating their rescuer's move, swinging out and down. 

Whatever confidence he had that Sierra would not betray them did not extend to not leaving them; if it came down to a choice between her life and theirs, he fully expected her to cut her losses and run. He could not even blame her, though he intended to do everything in his power to insure she was not faced with that choice. 

As his weight shifted to his arms, he braced himself for the uncomfortable pull across his chest and breathed a quick prayer that his stitches would not bust. Elrohir would not react well to that, and he was not eager to learn if Sierra had a healer's impatience for ruined work to go with her knowledge of herbs. Dealing with one of them would be bad enough without having to deal with both. He wanted to deal with neither. 

Yet these thoughts had barely surfaced in his mind when his weight landed on his arms, checking his fall and pulling across his chest. That pain had barely registered-- hew as just about to let go and drop the remaining distance-- when something popped in his shoulder. Immediately, pain flared up his arm, tingling and sharp-- like his arm had fallen asleep magnified ten times. His hand slipped from the rock face, no longer under his control, and he quickly let go with his other hand, but not quickly enough to drop straight down. He felt himself tilt off-balance and desperately waved his arms to regain it. 

A cool hand caught the wrist of his injured arm, sending pain popping up his arm yet steadying his balance. Once he had it, he quickly stepped away, hissing through his teeth. He wanted-- more than anything-- to brace his shoulder with his good hand, but that would simply draw attention to it and the last thing he wanted to do was give his brother another cause for alarm. He tried to stretch it unobtrusively. 

"You alright?" 

The low murmur, so near his ear, startled him, whipping his head around to face the unexpected voice. He could just make out the lines of Sierra's face and he knew she was studying him-- or trying to. "Yes," he answered after a deep breath, proud his voice sounded normal. "Just slipped." 

Elrohir jumped down next to him and looked between the two of them. The girl stepped forward. "The path should be easier here. Come," she ordered, not paying Elladan a second glance as she started away from them. In that moment, the elder twin was prepared to forgive her anything. He had thought for sure she was going to press him further about his health; her silence was a blessing. 

Smiling wryly at Elrohir, he hurried to catch up with the girl. The younger rolled his eyes and followed. It occurred to Elladan that, just perhaps, Sierra stayed silent because she did not want to worry Elrohir either. 

They followed the miniature canyon north nearly to the mountains. Elrohir followed warily. It had not escaped his notice that Sierra had never told them why she had headed them north after their brief discussion. That she had no intentions of doing so was equally clear. More than once he had opened his mouth to ask for her explanation and just as many times closed it without speaking. 

It was not that he trusted her-- not to not betray them to the Slyntari nor to lead them to safety; it was simply that he could not think of a solid reason why they should not being going this way or why the should be going the other way. The last thing he wanted to hear were his own thoughts and doubts thrown back at his as arguments, so he held his tongue and fell back on his promise to his brother not to ask questions, never mind that he had had no problems asking earlier. 

Regardless of her ability to lead them, though, she had been right about one thing: this path was easier. The bottom had been worn smooth at some point in history, all the rough edges smoothed away more or less evenly along the entire length. The undulation that had plagued the land leading to the camp did not exist here, and though the walls jogged left and right at varying intervals, they were far enough apart to cause the trio no grief. Certainly Elladan seemed to be running easier now that the very earth beneath their feet was no longer conspiring against them. That eased his heart a little. 

"We'll go up here," Sierra announced suddenly, swerving towards the right hand wall without slowly appreciably. She reached up as she passed, catching an almost invisible handhold, and used her momentum to swing her to a higher hold. She caught the toes of her boots on other crevices and pushed herself up and over the ledge, accomplishing it so fast she almost appeared to fly up the wall. 

Both elves slowed to a halt as she peeked back over the ledge. "Elrohir: boost Elladan up. It's better if we don't test the stitches by having you climb," she explained, cutting off any protest before it could be made. "Down and up involve entirely different levels of stress." 

Elrohir was almost surprised Elladan did not try to argue anyway, but was not about to complain about his compliance when he would have demanded the same thing anyway-- had been about to before the girl spoke. 

His brother approached the wall, tested his handholds and found his footholds, then looked back at him. He laced his fingers together and got into position, crouched low both so Elladan could reach his hands and so he had some room to boost him up. His twin's boot settled in his hand and, after a silent count only the brothers understood, he rose, pushing the other up as he pushed off with his other foot. Elladan caught the holds he had planned, and seconds later the elder twin was over the lip as well. Elrohir followed quickly, deciding once he was up that Sierra's way had been easier. 

They started running again as soon as he had gained his feet, winding in and out of jutting rock formations that twisted towards the sky, doing their best not to give the Slyntari a clear line of their location. The spots of light had grown more numerous in the south and now extended past their position, closer to how far east they would have been had they not changed direction. That suggested their enemy did not know yet where they were. 

Sierra did not seem much at ease. Though they had resumed their eastbound path, the girl kept glancing uneasily to the south before peering into the darkness of the north. What she was looking for, he could not say, but it was obvious she did not find it. That lack seemed to unsettle her more, and she took to peering intently east beyond the line they traveled and back towards the camp. Elladan finally called her on it. 

"What are you looking for?" 

She was scanning the mountains. "The rest of Shirk's people." 

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks. "You mean there are more? Even after all those who joined the southern party?" 

The girl frowned at him. "No one joined the southern party." 

"There are more torches," Elladan pointed out evenly. 

"Part of that party disappeared," she contradicted. "If more had arrived you would be able to see them moving in the cast torch light. The torches are to confuse. The real hunters seek us in shadow." 

They exchanged another glance. "You knew this?" 

She sighed. Elrohir was inclined to take that as a yes. "We must keep moving. Maybe we can beat them." She did not say beat them _where_. 

The younger twin was beginning to get decidedly annoyed with this girl's secrets. Every line out of her mouth concealed two things for every one thing it revealed. It did not seem to matter that they were all in this together. She still needed her secrets, and he was tired of it. He just _knew_ one of her secrets was going to get them all in trouble. If that trouble cost him his twin, he would kill her. That he swore by Elbereth. 

It was not long before Elrohir noticed the rocks were clearing, and even less when he realized the land was now sloping up. It was shortly after he noticed both of those that he registered they were heading for a sheer cliff wall at least two dozen feet high. His first thought was that the child had lead them to a dead end. His second, even less welcome thought, was that she meant them to climb it. 

He looked toward her, intending to demand what in Arda she had been thinking-- and stepped past the last rock formation into the twenty foot clearing before the cliff. It was as if he had been watching a play and, suddenly, all the sound was taken away. The scene was still the same, but something had changed. His instincts screamed danger. 

Instantly alert, he scanned his surroundings, peering intently into the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was aware of Elladan going the same at his back, and was grimly satisfied to see Sierra had caught the insidious danger as well. By some unspoken agreement, they continued into the clearing, circling and watchful, towards the cliff. Nothing moved to challenge them. The world was silent. Their slight footsteps sounded loud in the stillness. 

Elrohir could feel his breathing slow and deepen, his mind clear. They stood in the middle of the clearing when it happened. 

Shadows, dozens of shadows, detached from the rocky structures, swarming away from the strange statues like bees from a disturbed hive. More came in from the north, from the mountains, leaving the south as the only way to run-- straight into the southern party they had always been aware of-- with the cliff at their back, still ten feet away. 

"Back!" the girl shouted, retreating quickly from the enemy's advance and closing the remaining distance between them and the cliff before it could be cut off, the elves right with her. She pulled twin knives as the first Slyntari reached them, catching the blade high, pushed back and yelled, "Go!" 

Elrohir had already pulled his sword and had only a moment of confusion before he saw Elladan making his way up the cliff's side. Disgust swirled through him. Minutes earlier she had stopped the elder twin from climbing, and now she led them here, to a place where he would be forced to climb something more than twice as tall? He could not believe it. Had she planned this all along? A way to deal with them more easily? Was she to lead them here, where she could betray them without revealing her true loyalties? 

He hacked angrily at one of the cloaked menaces, catching the other off-guard with the power of the swing, and sliced him from neck to hip, nearly removing his right shoulder entirely. The man's sword clattered to a stop six feet further south. 

From somewhere nearby, a horn sounded, haunting in its call, and further to his left another answered. The torches were closer now, but Elrohir ignored them, concentrating instead on the press of bodies assaulting him. He met their strikes, his fury giving him strength, but there were too many. Slowly but surely, he was being forced towards the cliff. Once his back was to the stone, it would be over. 

Three more followed the first to their grave in rapid succession, having ventured too close to his blade as it sang through the air. A clatter behind him, the scrape of footsteps over stone, the clash of blade on blade, then another faceless warrior pressed him and his own blade joined in the melody. He could never remember, later, how long they had fought thus; though it could not have been long, it stretched for an eternity. Then someone was yelling for him to go. 

Elladan had passed beyond the reach of their enemies' swords. Too may challenged them with reinforcements on the way. The only way to escape was up. As soon as he got an opening, he stuffed his sword into his scabbard and threw himself up as high as he could, snagging a handhold and pulling himself up. When he was high enough to no longer be troubled by the swords, he glanced down. 

With the elves out of reach, most of the cloaked figures had pulled back, watching them intently from the ground while orders were shouted in that strange tongue the twins had heard earlier. Some had shifted focus to the girl, who somehow managed to block the blows coming at her. Six lay dead near her, but she was no longer able to attack, too pressed simply defending to land any killing blows. He had to admire her skill if nothing else. 

He was just about to shout at her to come when she jumped, the sword that had been meant to skewer her passing cleanly beneath her feet with barely an inch to spare. It struck stone, and she touched down briefly on its side then jumped again, passing one of her knives to the other hand and catching at the stone with the newly freed one, twisting in midair to face the wall. For a moment, he thought she had made it (incredible as that was), then her hand slipped and she started to fall, automatically reaching out with her other hand and nearly losing her knives. 

She slipped down into reach of the Slyntari's swords before finally gaining a firm grasp on the rock face, jerking to a halt as her feet scrabbled over the side for purchase. He saw a silver blade arc toward her leg and saw her jerk, then kick backwards, much like a mule he had seen while traveling with the rangers near Bree. Then she had switched hands, then one holding her knives now caught in stone and was reaching up with the other, pulling herself quickly out of reach. 

High enough to be considered safe, she looked up to find both elves watching her, unmoving. Her eyes found his. "Get to the top!" she yelled. "Now!" 

Before he could be irritated at being ordered around by a child, movement caught his eye. Shadows formed near the boulders, some perched atop them, carrying something and coming no closer. His heart jolted as his mind registered what they were despite the darkness: archers. 

They were sitting ducks perched on the side of the cliff. Their hands and feet required for climbing, there was no way to defend themselves; and they were too far from their opponents to do any damage if that were not so. Safe form swords but not from arrows, they had only two choices: to drop back down among the swords, or brave the onslaught of arrows and continue up hoping to reach the top before they were struck down. 

Except there was no choice. Elrohir started climbing. 

Fatigue clawed at him, making his arms heavy, but he grit his teeth and kept climbing-- even when the distinctive _twang_ of a bow being released met his ears. More joined it. An arrow soared past his face, nicking his cheek, and splintered against hard stone. He flinched as a shard from the arrow tip struck his temple, barely missing his eye. Most of the others struck over his head. He ignored all of it and continued pulling himself up. 

He cursed under his breath as he discovered Sierra had been right about another thing: he tired more quickly. No run and brief battle should have tired him so, yet it felt as if he had gained a hundred pounds. His arms ached and his legs ached, but he would no more admit defeat than throw his sword in with Sauron. He imagined Sierra boasting to her masters how easy it had been to destroy them and pulled himself higher, forcing himself to focus on the goal and not the weariness of his limbs. 

Around him, the wind began to blow, breaking its silence. 

Elladan's arms trembled. His whole body trembled. Pain, the pain that had been suppressed by that disgusting drink was beginning to wear off. His chest burned where the thread pierced him, aggravated no matter how careful he was. His head was beginning to ache again, working up from the base of his skull to pound in his temples in time with his heartbeat, still disturbingly fast (yet slower than it had been). His ankle throbbed mercilessly, unforgiving after his careless behavior. 

And on top of the pain, he could feel his strength failing, the drink that had given him new energy past its usefulness, his own too little to sustain the rigors he forced upon it. 

He pushed and pulled himself laboriously to a new handhold, shifting his weight so he could grab another without making his injuries screech in protest. His feet nearly slipped. Two arrows struck--_ one-two_ --bare inches from his face, blow off-course by the same wind that was conspiring to knock him from his perch. He did not react; he did not have the energy to flinch. 

The elf breathed hard, struggling to draw enough breath into tortured lungs to keep his vision clear and his mind functioning. He looked up to find Sierra had gained the top and Elrohir was but a few feet shy. He, himself, still had nearly eight feet to go. 

He already knew he could not make it. 

Elladan watched his brother pull himself over the lip of the cliff and disappear from sight as he tried to find the strength to reach up yet again and pull himself up another foot closer to his goal. He could not give up. He knew for the sake of his brother and father that he could not give up; but he also knew he could not go on. If he tried, he would fall. 

His dark eyes met Sierra's, her eyes urgent and worried where his were regretful and sad. She knew his strength was failing, that he could not much longer cling to cold rock. He had never been over fond of trees, like Legolas, but he wished for them now. He stared into the girl's eyes and made a last plea, uncertain if she would get it, doubtful she would manage to fulfill it: _Save my brother. Take him and go. Promise me._

Then the world fell apart. Even as he reached up for one last try, an arrow finally struck home, biting hard into his upper thigh. He jerked from the pain, a startled cry escaping his lips. Automatically, his hand came down, trying to stop the pain. His foot slipped, the other following. His weight landed on his left arm and blinding agony radiated from his shoulder. His fingers slipped and he fell, the world graying out around him and one word following him into darkness. 

"NO!" 

They slowed to a halt upon a grassy knoll two miles from Caivern, Ardevui pacing a few steps before stopping and irritably tossing her head. A slender hand stroked her neck absently as both riders stared east toward the still distant village. Aragorn could not really see it, but Legolas took this chance to study from afar. 

It was fair sized (near as he could tell) for a human town, certainly bigger than the village they had been unintentional guests of near the Mountains of Mirkwood. Dozens of wooden buildings were clustered together-- the darkness blurred their lines sufficiently enough that he could not get a sure count-- in a square. A field to the north, enclosed by a low fence, was tilled for farming, mostly bare in these cold months. Nearly an acre of land to the east was fenced off though nothing occupied it. There seemed to be two main avenues-- pointed east and west-- with several smaller lanes connecting them. 

A frown lightly pinched his brow as he continued to survey Caivern. With all the space, the elf would have expected the humans to spread out, not cluster together. "I forgot to ask, my friend; but have you ever been to Caivern before?" 

"Rangers rarely need to travel so far south," Aragorn answered, leaning away to try to peer at Legolas. "Why?" 

"Do you know if they suffer attack?" he asked. 

"I have not heard of it," the ranger replied after a pause, something in his voice telling the elf he was unsettled. "I cannot see so far in this shadow. Does it look like they have suffered thus?" Regardless his proclaimed limitation, he still stared into the darkness, futilely trying to see more than a dark shadow on the horizon and a couple pinpoints of light. 

Legolas followed his gaze, trying to see for himself if there was nay sign of destruction. If there was, though, the darkness hid it well from his eyes also. "No, I see no such signs. But would they not want to spread out if there were no threat?" 

"Perhaps they are simply uncomfortable being so far from the strength of Rohan," Aragorn suggested quietly, that same hesitation preceding his words. "Or perhaps they used to be more spread out and were attacked, prompting them to rebuild so as to gain more safety." 

"Perhaps," the elf prince agreed. "Regardless, it does not look like they get many visitors." No lights burned outside the many doorsteps waiting to welcome late wayfarers; the few they could see lit only the two main roads. 

"I doubt anyone is up this late. Perhaps we should make camp and proceed in the morning." If he were honest with himself, he did not relish he thought of what these villagers would do if they startled them in the middle of the night. Humans could be quite volatile when their sleep was disturbed; add that to their tendency to act first, question later and put it in the hands of a group who feared attack, and Legolas could easily see what came next. "Courtesy would have us wait." 

Aragorn leaned forward, peering into the darkness for Valar alone knew what, then shifted back. "No," he said. "Someone should still be up in the inn, and it is courtesy to admit travelers for the night no matter the time. They will not turn us away." 

"I was more worried about the form of their greeting," he countered wryly, not exactly comforted but willing to trust his friend's judgment. _Besides_, Legolas added silently, _I can't really let him go alone._ And if he were honest with himself, he would really like to sleep in a true bed, too. "A pitchfork in the face is a tired welcome." 

The young man chuckled softly. "Are you sure it's not the ear-pulling you're more worried about?" 

Legolas turned and glared at the man. The other leaned back, an irrepressible grin on his face ,and raised an eyebrow. "Watch it, human," he warned dangerously before turning back around. He urged Ardevui forward and watched the small town grow closer. Several moments passed in silence before he muttered, "_Maybe_ the ear-pulling." 

Aragorn burst out laughing. 

"NO!" 

Elrohir felt as if he was falling, as if his heart was being squeezed between a giant fist, as if he was rushing down a tunnel, as if he had plunged into ice, as if the world had gone silent, the stars gone dark. He felt as if his life was ending. 

He stared over the cliff edge, watching-- paralyzed-- as his brother fell further and further away from him, stretching from eight feet to eternity, his desperately stretched out hand too far away to help. He watched Elladan's eyes go wide in surprise, in pain, his mouth slipping open in a wordless, soundless cry. Elrohir heard it in his mind. Agony. 

Darkness rushed in on him. His vision funneled, locked on his brother so the elder twin's face was the only thing he could see. Lines-- hard planes-- pain-- fatigue-- resignation. . . . _No!_ Elladan could not give up! Not now! They had come so far. . . . 

Desperation shot through him, pumping adrenaline into his tired form. He had to reach his brother. He had to reach Elladan. All he needed to do was catch him and bring him up the mountain. That was all. Then they could leave and all would be well. Without thought, he jumped forward-- 

Steel cords wrapped around his chest and jerked him back, snapping his jaw shut at the abrupt shift, jarring him. He cried out as his twin disappeared from view, replaced by cold hard stone-- reached for him, dug at what held him from going to his brother's aid-- but the stone kept growing, widening the gap between them, and his strength failed. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the ground. 

A startled grunt sounded near his ear as stone rushed up to meet him. He barely registered the pain that bit into his hands and knees, flared through his hip and knocked at his head. His brother was gone. . . . 

Kalya hissed as she hit the ground, pulled down by Elrohir's weight. Elves were _not_ supposed to just fall like that. The girl scowled as she untangled herself from the slumped elf, irritated beyond all measure at the elf's behavior when they need to leave _now_. 

She crouched before him, ducking her head to see the elf's eyes with his name on the tip of her tongue, a call that died unsaid as she gaze into his eyes. Once bright blue and sparkling, lit by their own inner glow, they were now dark and listless, empty of all but the deepest despair. Her breath seemed to leave her, all oxygen sucked away by the pain-filled loss of the other half of her soul-- 

Kayla shook her head, breaking the spell that had pulled her into Elrohir's thoughts with the sharpness of snapping a twig. Damn elves, anyway. She let her eyes harden, her face, heart and mind following suit. She would not fall apart, would not let him draw her into so meaningless a stupor as to blind her from her surroundings. She would not give up years of training with enemies so near. 

She would not make this personal. 

The girl took a deep breath, let it out, and turned her attention back to the dark-haired elf who had not moved. "Elrohir," she called. Blue eyes stared, unblinking, heedless of her address. "Elrohir!" she snapped more sharply, letting an edge of urgent command permeate her tone. "Attend!" 

The figure before her stirred but did not rise; blinked but did not look at her. For all intents and purposes, he could have been a statue, carven from stone by a particularly gifted artisan and dumped in the middle of nowhere. He was certainly not the strong and gifted warrior who had come to rescue Aragorn from the Slyntari nearly a year past, nor the surrounding conscientious elf she knew he had to be. Had he not sat before her, she would have sworn he did not exist. 

She could hear movement beyond the ledge, the murmur of voices, and knew if they were to escape, it had to be now. Resolved, she hauled back her hand and struck Elrohir had across the face. 

The slap roused him like a bucket of ice water. He gasped as if just rising to the surface after a long dive. 

Kalya frowned, partly from annoyance and partly from confusion. Her voice was hard as the stone they sat on and brooked no argument. "We are leaving. Now. You will not talk. You will not argue. And you will not hinder me. Now come." 

Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his arm and pulled. He rose without protest and walked placidly behind her, not speaking so much as a word about going back for his brother nor glancing so much as an inch to the side to hind his mirror image. It unnerved her as much as it relieved her. She had expected an argument, a fight-- some protest of some kind-- despite her orders to the contrary. 

Looking back, she could tell he was not seeing her, nor his surroundings. He had dropped into his own little world and nothing from this one could touch him. Shock, she would have said, a reaction to the traumatic events he had just experienced, but there had to be more to it. And would he come out of it on his own or would she need to help? Uneasily, she wondered what he would do when he opened his eyes and realized she had taken him from his twin. 

_Later_, she insisted firmly. _Right now, we need to get away from our pursuers._ There would be time to deal with the dead-weight elf who trailed her when they were our of harms way. Or as near as could be found in enemy territory. 

The procession of lights could be seen from miles away, threading its way around formless stone statues as the Slyntari ascended the eastern slope. Torl watched them closely, his face carefully neutral. He did not possess the keen sight of elves, but he thought he could make out flighty shadows moving stealthily among the outer edge of the group. 

Hours had passed since they first set out, hours in which Torl and Shirk had remained in unmoving-- the former with every ounce of patience and serenity he could muster; the latter with a strange expectation, his gaze fixed unwavering on a spot in the darkness as if seeing what mere mortals could not. The man had tried not to react when he felt a shift in his lord, subtle and almost unrecognizable save for the fact that he had sensed it before-- a thickening in the air, a touch of displeasure, like the quiet before the storm descends to ravage the world: that time, their agents had failed. 

And when the men had appeared in his sight under the carefully expressionless gaze of their lord, Torl had known better than to start. It had taken the better part of his control not to fidget or glance at the grave elf lord standing silently at his side. Whispers of dark thoughts had wended deviously through his mind. Now that the forerunners stood little more than a hundred yards away, he knew they had failed this time, too. 

Torl remained stoic as their men entered the camp, faces grim. Silently, he counted them, attempting to judge how costly this failure had been. Then his eyes fell on a still figure borne among four warriors and he could not help the frown that contorted his face. Who had they brought back-- and it hit him: one of the prisoners. Perhaps not a complete failure, then. 

Most of the warriors dispersed, taking off in different directions to return to dropped duties or await new orders at their posts. A fair few resumed guard around the perimeter, filling in gaps like a dam being systematically plugged. Three plus the four bearing the litter, however, headed straight for their superiors. 

The ranking soldier, a man approximately four years Torl's elder with gray beginning to streak his jet black hair and blocky features that more resembled a troll than a man, stopped before them and rapped his chest smartly with his fist, bowing sharply. The others followed suit, though the four bearing the elf only bowed. 

"Report," Shirk ordered, his voice soft, calm. 

The men straightened. "Sir. We caught up with them at Dead Drop. Having arrived a little ahead of them, we laid in wait until they were in the midst of the clearing. Two held us off while the third began his climb, then followed. This one--" he gestured back towards the prone elf "--we caught with an arrow and knocked him from the cliff. The other two continued up and made the top. By the time some of my men made it to the top they were gone and trail lose to us. We may be able to pick it back up come morning." He did not sound hopeful. 

Hard, unfathomable eyes studied the group for a long moment. "Very well," Shirk intoned, even softer than before. A strange light gleamed in his eyes. "Secure the Elf in one of the Western holding cells and send-- Tamis, to see that he lives." 

"Yes, my lord." A bow and clap of fists later, they were gone. Torl stood very still, gazing unseeing at the space his men had occupied. His men-- had failed. He had failed. Again. Perhaps if he had listened to his instincts sooner, they would not have escaped. If he had listened, the guard would have been doubled around the elves and Kelt would never have been able to pull off this treachery. This disturbingly successful treachery. He knew with the certainty of a warrior that all three would have escaped had one of the elves not been injured. 

Yet it did not matter. He was still going to die. Among the Slyntari, failure could only mean death. He let out a slow breath and turned to face his lord. 

"You see what she has done," Shirk commented, almost idly, his gaze back on the darkness. 

Torl swallowed. He saw all right. She had made fools of them all. "Yes, sir." 

"I'm afraid I underestimated her, Torl. I did not believe she would return, did not believe her so foolish, and she has turned it back on us. A slap in the in the face." The elf studied the dark shadows of the trees. "She may yet prove more of a nuisance than I bargained for," he murmured, nearly too soft for his lieutenant to catch. 

"Sir?" Torl prompted. 

"But no matter. The dye is cast." Shirk's sharp eyes turned on the human at his side. "Begin the breaking at dawn. Focus on his mental defenses." 

"My lord?" 

Malicious anticipation lit ice cold eyes. "We have a reception to prepare." 

Torl glanced away into the night. Surely Shirk was not suggesting what he thought? If he knew Kelt at all (and he fancied he did) then there was no way she would be returning to this camp. "You expect they will return?" 

"No. I know they will return," Shirk replied. A cold smile twisted his lips. "The sons of Elrond are too much like their father. The remaining twin will not abandon his brother. He will return and drag Kelt with him. And when he does, we will have a welcome ready they will not soon forget." 

Both elf and man looked around silently as they passed the first row of buildings. They were simple and neatly built, well-kept despite signs of wear and age. New wood, not yet discolored by expose to the elements showed where repairs had been made. The path was hard packed from the passage of many, and horses snorted quietly from nearby. Around him stood the evidence of a simple lifestyle, everything what could be expected of a human town, and yet he was struck with a feeling of wrongness. 

Legolas guided Ardevui down the wide thoroughfare at an easy pace, his sharp eyes darting around the still lands for a hint of where they wanted to be. A subtle tension hovered over him, lost to all but those who knew him well. It was more than just anxiety about their welcome. 

Far from reassuring, knowing that Legolas shared his unease increased Aragorn's disquiet. That the elf sensed it, too, meant he could not be imagining it. But what was it? Everything looked normal. Except it was too quiet. Except the Rohirrim preferred open spaces. Except the horses were locked away when they would usually be held in a corral (it was not so cold that they needed to be sheltered). Except there were no gates barring entrance when every door they passed was bolted shut, speaking of a wariness of intrusion that was belied by the unassuming openness of the town. 

Perhaps it was the incongruity of locking their doors while leaving the city open which struck him. Or perhaps it was the fact that everyone appeared to be asleep, all light out, no one leaving the bars to return home. It was late, true, but not so late that the distraction of drinks should be over. Had he misjudged in coming here, in bringing Legolas? 

Or was his imagination running away with him, painting shadows where none existed? He and Legolas had had far too many close calls to not be wary, but could they be hoisting their suspicions of the undeserving? 

Aragorn glanced around, noting that they had traveled nearly two-thirds the distance of their road, and Legolas was beginning to slow Ardevui uncertainly. That the elf prince had been in human towns before in no way implied he understood how to navigate them or understood all he saw. He was beginning to think he had missed the place they were looking for. 

Noticing his friend's distress (and cursing himself for not doing so earlier), the ranger pulled his thoughts away from questions he could not answer at present and focused on finding the local inn. He quickly noticed at least part of the reason for his companion's confusion: none of the signs had words. Only pictures graced the hanging slats and, while the one with an anvil and hammer were fairly easy to identify, some (like the one with two vertical red stripes with a third white stripe cutting them diagonally) were harder to discern. 

His gaze landed on a green sign with a yellow circle in the middle, the bottom sliver cut off, and a reared horse placed before it, black as the night sky. It brought to mind a grassy field at sunset, a horse between the watcher and the horizon calling its challenge to the approaching night. 

With his left hand, Aragorn tapped the elf's shoulder, getting his attention. He leaned forward and pointed. "Over there. The Black Stallion." A light could just be seen at the bottom edge of the door. 

"Black Stallion?" Legolas questioned, but he was guiding Ardevui towards the building, looking both more and less tense. Aragorn thought he could guess why. 

"There is an old Rohirrim legend dating back before Eorl the Young led his host to the aid of Cirion of Gondor and were granted the lands of Calenardhon for their troubles. It is said that a black stallion rode into Éothéod in the midst of a great battle where the foes were fell and numerous, and there came upon the lord of the Éothéod. Léod, father of Eorl, was knocked from his steed and forced back, his defeat certain, when the stallion charged them and drove them back. He allowed Léod to mount him and through the long day, the enemy was routed and forced to retreat. But at sunset, while the Éothéod supped, the beast charged the horizon and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again." 

The ranger dismounted, sliding off first so Legolas could follow more easily. "I have heard that the Rohirrim count the appearance of a riderless stallion before battle a sign that victory will be theirs." He paused as his friend joined him and ordered Ardevui to wait here, then added cheekily, "But I do not know if that is so. It was told me by Elladan and Elrohir and I have yet to meet anyone I would dare ask for confirmation." 

Legolas chuckled. "Well, at least you have learned your lesson. I, for one, cannot verify it in the least. The ways of Men, especially these Horse-lords, are strange to me." He gestured at the door. "Shall we?" 

The proud elf would never admit it, but he no more wanted to enter this human inn than he wanted to dine with a host of orcs. Since he had no choice, however, he would content himself with making Strider go first. That seemed to work best anyway. Little though the ranger was liked in most parts, most respected or feared the man enough to leave him be. 

Aragorn smiled as he walked past the elf, his eyes dancing with knowing mirth, and ascended the three wooden steps leading to the door without comment, Legolas close behind him. His smiled faded. Truth be told, he was not looking forward to this meeting much more than his companion. That nameless dread he felt had not diminished, at least as certain as his belief that the twins were in peril but less defined. It hovered around him like smoke in a closed room, the fire that caused it hidden from his sight. Should they not leave and find somewhere else to gain supplies? 

But there was nowhere else, not if they were to aid the twins. He raised his hand, but stopped just short of the doorknob, his hand hovering in midair in the process of opening the door as was expected and proper for inns. Instead, he changed direction and rapped his fist against the thick wooden door that looked like it had lived through a war. Of course, if the patrons were anything like the ones he had encountered elsewhere, his observation was probably not far off. 

He listened closely and heard footsteps pause mid-stride, silence wrapping around them, before beginning again with a hesitancy that spoke of confusion and wariness. They stopped at the door, but neither was the door opened nor were they hailed. Aragorn waited, feeling Legolas' eyes upon him. It had been a hunch, but one he did not think would prove ill. 

Slowly, the door opened a crack, enough for a small child to fit through sideways, and a young man appeared before the crack. His dark brown hair fell to his chin and his dark brown eyes watched them warily, a strange mix of curiosity and hostility hidden in their depths. The brown eyes flickered over them quickly, taking in their full appearances ( lingering a moment on both pairs of feet) before returning to Aragorn's steady gaze. 

"Can I help you, sirs?" the lad inquired politely of them, though he was sure the youth would have preferred to simply slam the door in their faces. 

"Is this the town inn?" Aragorn countered evenly. 

The boy nodded, a single bob of his head. "One of two. The other is on the lower road." 

He acknowledged the information with a dip of his own head. "And you stock supplies?" 

Brown eyes darted again to their feet. "We do." 

"Then we would ask your aid," he responded, the barest hint of a smile peeking through. "I'm afraid we ran into a spot of trouble crossing the river during a storm. My horse started, dumping me in the river before taking off and bear half our supplies with him. we have ridden hard to reach you town. Will you supply us?" 

The boy hesitated, glancing to something inside the inn they could not see before looking to the darkened sky. The Dúnadan thought he knew what the lad was thinking. 

"It need not be now," he assured, speaking before the boy could pose the problem of hour. "We have waited this long and can easily last through the night outside of town. We just wish to know if we can make our purchases here or it we shall have to chance riding elsewhere." 

The youth stared at him, and he could feel Legolas' eyes as well, boring into the back of his head in irritation at offering the lad what he had tried to insist on only moments before and been denied. Then the lad sighed, seeming to give up some inner struggle, and took several steps back, opening the door wider so they could enter. "You need not wait outside," he told them. "We have rooms available that you may use." 

"You are most kind," Aragorn replied, stepping inside. Legolas once more followed closely. 

With the door no longer blocking his view, the ranger could see the bar that stretched most of the length of the left-hand wall. Many bottles rested behind it against the wall. A fire burned in the hearth against the far wall, providing most of the illumination for the room. A single torch burned in a bracket fixed to the right hand wall to one side of a passageway that disappeared up a set of stairs. Most of the space, however, was taken up by eight and ten thick-hewn tables that almost seemed to have grown out of the floor with five chairs circling each. About half looked freshly scrubbed, and a rag lay abandoned on one of the tables to mark the boy's progress. It was not hard to determine what they had called the boy from. 

"Would you care for food? Drink?" the dark-haired lad asked, moving to the bar. 

Aragorn glanced at Legolas, briefly meeting the other's gaze. "We had such fare as we had in store ere we came," he answered. "But a drink would not be unwelcome." 

The boy nodded, pulling out two mugs. "What'll ye have?" 

"The House Brew," he answered as he approached the bar. He perched on a stool, Legolas settling on one nearby, and his silver eyes scanned the room. "This is a fine establishment," he commented. "I have rarely found so clean an inn in all my travels." 

"Father built it," the boy answered, a quiet pride in his voice as he poured the drinks. "He did not wish to breed horses, having no real knowledge of the task, but found a use in helping others. He wants it to be a safe place. Cleanliness is simply something of a habit." 

"So is filth," Legolas spoke of for the first time, his voice lilting and musical. "And some of us excel at it." He glared pointedly at the ranger as he spoke the last. The boy's eyes widened in surprise at the words. He froze in mid-motion of handing them their drinks. 

Aragorn glared right back. "It's hardly _my_ fault traveling is dirty work." 

"Some of us manage not to pick up all the dirt on Arda," the elf replied airily. 

"And some of us aren't prissy Elves," the ranger countered. "What say you, boy?" 

"Uh--" He looked nearly panic-stricken at being asked to offer his opinion, his expression quite comical. 

Aragorn grinned at him, his smile lighting in his face the joy of youth. "Don't worry. It won't matter what you say-- we've been having this argument for eight years and have yet to find a victor." 

"Oh. Okay, then." He set the drinks before them and left to return to scrubbing the tables, far from at ease if his expression was anything to go by. A distracted frown pulled at his lips as he puzzled on what the stranger had said. 

The friends let the silence settle, warm and easy, as they drank their brew. It had a smoky taste, somewhat strong by pleasant just the same, and the ranger entertained himself briefly with trying to identify the spices that had been added to the common ale and had decided one was taprika when he noticed Legolas was more playing with his brew than drinking it. He covertly watched the elf sniff at the liquid then take a cautious sip, looking like he expected it would burn him, before pulling back with a grimace that said he had been right. 

Aragorn snorted into his drink. 

The elf's head snapped up, firing a glare at the human that would have sent orcs running for the mountains. Used to elven glares and, more importantly, used to _Legolas'_ glares, the ranger just grinned impishly. "To much for the great Elf?" he taunted, his voice barely a whisper. 

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "You wish, human." The challenge accepted, he took a long draught of the spicy brew , but could not suppress a shudder as he swallowed. Aragorn descended into a fit of poorly restrained laughter. 

The boy looked up from his work. "Is everything to you liking?" he asked. 

"Fine!" Aragorn answered brightly. "It's delicious." 

The boy nodded and look back to his work. 

The man watched him a moment, his mood sobering as he followed the young man's steady scrubbing. Freed from other concerns, his mind could return to his brothers. What were they doing while he sat here, warm and comfortable with drink in hand, teasing a dear friend? Were they comfortable? Had they enough to eat and drink? In the hands of the Slyntari, horrible as they were, he could not believe it. 

His troubled gaze sought out the fire that flickered unconcernedly to his left, the flame's one desire to consume all fuel. Destructive as a fire could be, it was also useful . . . beautiful. Each jump of the flame was unique, and usually Aragorn could find relief from his tortured thoughts in the variable pattern of fire but tonight they would not soothe. All he could see was the destruction, the torment, how each tongue of fire devoured the source that gave it life. . . . 

"Aragorn?" 

He blinked and looked to the boy. "Tell me," he bid, ignoring his friend's questioning gaze. "How fares Caivern?" 

Abyl looked up, startled, but he could find save genuine interest in the man's gaze, a paternal kind of concern that seemed out of place on a stranger's face, one who had no claim to the well-being of a small, out-of-the-way town-- yet fit in a way he could not describe. Perhaps it was that concern which prompted him to answer the question more truthfully than otherwise intended instead of simply jumping to his home's defense. 

"Caivern fares well," he said fairly. "Our crop yield was good this past year, and the horse trade is strong. Tennen is finishing with the next group. I have heard they will be going to Edoras to supplement the _éored_ of the Mark. They have need of good horses. 

"That is a high compliment to your people," Aragorn observed, approvingly. 

"It is." The boy did not pause in his work. 

"And yet you are troubled." It was a subtle feeling, one well hidden by the youth, and one only caught because he was seeking so hard a distraction from his own troubles. At another time, he might have missed the signs entirely. 

The ranger saw Legolas glance at him in surprise. It was said that elves could look into the hearts of men, but he had sensed no weight upon the youth's mind-- except, perhaps, discomfort in the presence of strangers. Neither, though, had he been paying much attention, his thoughts cast out after the whisper of dread he had felt since entering this town. He had not had much practice discerning the troubles of men as the man who was destined to be their king. Aragorn answered his look with but a half-glance. 

He met brown eyes steadily when they fixed on his silver. The boy's wariness had returned, along with a stubborn pride Aragorn's family was all too familiar with from when he was younger (indeed, even now) that resisted the sharing of burdens too long kept private. "Aye, I am troubled," the lad answered brazenly. "I fail to see what concern it is to you when I neither know your names nor you, mine." 

The ranger smiled slightly and tipped his head in concession of the point. "In that case, I am Strider, a Ranger of the North, and my companion is Legolas of the Woodland realm." They had not troubled to cover the elf's appearance, so there was no reason to conceal his identity. He glanced at the elf as he spoke before turning his attention back to the boy. "He is troubled, too, but I shall get nothing out of him for awhile yet." 

The youth glanced cautiously at the faire being. "Why?" he asked, almost against his will. 

"I'm afraid we know little of your town," Aragorn replied. "Too little to judge if something is wrong or if we have simply become paranoid in our old age. It is worrisome." 

Abyl glanced between the two, noting that the man-- Strider-- now looked pensive, both strangers staring into empty space. It was not wise to talk to strangers these days, especially with the Evil growing, but perhaps an exception could be made? This ranger, for all that his appearance was far from fair, did not strike him as foul. The lord of old was no so widely shared as once, but he thought, too, that he had heard the Rangers were an honorable people, in some way akin to the Great Kings of Gondor. Maybe. It had been a long time since he last heard the old tales. 

The lad glanced nervously towards the plain wall they seemed to be staring at, searching it with his eyes to see if it would reveal the timbre of their thoughts, then decided he did not much care for the silence and cleared his throat. Both beings looked at him. "My name is Abyl," he offered, taken aback at their attention. "It's a pleasure to meet you both." 

Legolas smiled. "The pleasure is ours." A somewhat wicked light sparked in blue eyes. "In fact, I am in your debt; if not for you, I would have had to listen to this one--" he jerked his head at Strider "--gripe about the cold all night like an overgrown babe." 

The man in question glared. "Big words from a prissy Elf who can't drink his ale," he huffed. "And I do not gripe." 

"You do," the elf countered. "And unlike you, I'm clean." 

"Clean? And why shouldn't you be? You took a bath in the river!" The ranger snorted. 

"As did you, as I recall," Legolas countered. "But it doesn't seem to have done you much good." 

"That's because I fell in-- I didn't have time for a leisurely bath." 

"Leisurely!" the elf burst out. "By the Valar, human, your memory is worse than I thought!" 

Abyl did not hear the reply as he burst out laughing, interrupting the banter between the friends. They stopped glaring at each other so they could watch the boy's mirth, bemused expressions hiding their very real amusement at his reaction. The boy dropped into one of the wooden chairs. 

Aragorn glanced sidelong at his friend. "Well, what do you know?" he questioned wryly. "He laughs." 

"Indeed," Legolas agreed, doing his best not laugh. "Who would have thought we were so entertaining?" 

"And among such young company." 

The boy looked up, mildly alarmed, his humor gone as he realized what he had done. "Forgive me--" he began breathily, still winded from his laughter, but the ranger waved him off. 

"No need," he assured with a smile. "We had hoped to make you laugh." 

"Why?" Abyl wanted to know. Usually only friends wanted one to laugh, and these two were certainly not friends. He had just met them! Unless they were going to tell his father about his poor conduct? 

Legolas waved his mug-- still more than half-full. "Because you are young. Children deserve to laugh." 

Indignation hardened his face. "I am no child," Abyl snapped stiffly, his eyes burning. 

"A kindred spirit, Strider," Legolas murmured to his friend, hiding his smile with his mug. 

The ranger rolled his eyes, then pinned the lad with a fond smile. "Do not mind Legolas," he advised wisely. "He's an Elf. Elves can never admit you've grown up." 

He jumped out of his seat just ahead of Legolas' hand. A quick glance (complete with impish smile) at the blonde Mirkwood archer convinced him to keep walking, and he settled himself back down at the table Abyl occupied, the boy looking fairly bemused himself. 

"Are you two always like this?" Abyl wanted to know. He had never seen two adults act so much like-- children. 

"Mostly," Aragorn agreed lightly. "Our friends are worse." 

"Much worse," Legolas added, prompting Abyl to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. 

"Now tell us: why are you troubled?" His bright silver eyes were serious once more as he looked into the deep brown of the boy before him. 

The lad felt his light mood ebb away and the worries of his adopted people return-- he preferred to pretend there was no problem. He sighed. "As you are traveling these parts I suppose you have a right to know-- though I can't say if they attack outsiders." Looking at the table, he missed the sudden tensing of his visitors. "It started a little under a year ago, to the best of my recollection." 

Except he did not _want_ to recollect. He looked up, and Strider nodded for him to continue. "This town has always been somewhat isolate, laying as it does so far from the strength of both Rohan and Gondor. But, more than just isolated, we are fairly poor, so the lack of protection was hardly disturbing because few pirates wished to trouble with a people so far from other civilization for so little. That, perhaps, gave us a false sense of security. There was no purpose to building a gate to keep people out when nearly no one came in anyway. 

"Then people started coming, strange people with hard eyes and foreign accents, like-- I don't know. But they simply passed through, sometimes giving a few of the neighbors a hard time. They went south, into the mountains, and we were glad, because they were not staying _here_. Only recently, there have been attacks. People have come, men, from the mountains. They come up quick with weapons, then take men, women, and children back with them. Any who get in the way are killed." He sighed, fiddling with the edge of his rag. "The raids have been few, thankfully, but to a group who thought themselves safe, they are terrifying." 

"Are there many of them?" Legolas asked. 

"Perhaps a dozen," Abyl answered. "They ride in, cause chaos, get what they want, and leave." 

"A dozen? Can not the town rally against them?" 

The boy shook his head, a familiar bitterness squeezing his heart. "These are simple people, Master Elf, not warriors. Most of them have never carried a sword a day in their life. But after the first raid, a group of men did try. They took what weapons they could and went over the mountains. What happened then, I cannot say, but naught but two ever returned, bearing with them tales and only half their wits. None have dared try since." 

"When was this?" 

"What tales?" Aragorn pressed, overriding his fair friend. His silver eyes were troubled. Worry for more than just his brothers held him as he heard a whisper months old echo through his head: _Your people need a leader, son of Arathorn._ Was this what she had meant? But no, even a king could not protect all his people. _Yet you leave them to fight the darkness alone._

"You would not wish to hear of them. They are foolishness." 

Except he had seen others dismiss truth because they judged it impossible. "I would hear it anyway so I might judge for myself," he answered. "Sometimes a grain of truth may be found, even in fancy." 

"If you wish," Abyl sighed, looking as if he was doing this against his better judgment. Yet he continued when the ranger signaled he continue. He studied the tabletop as he searched his mind for the memory. "They were more or less hysterical when they got back and haven't been right since. It took forever to make sense of their inane ramblings, but they both swore it was some strange creature that attacked them. 

"They followed the South Men over the mountain and were captured, straight off, expected like. They said a tall man with strange eyes that looked right through you and saw everything ordered them taken to a cave. It was dark and deep, with a bad feel about it, they claimed, and they wandered for hours before coming upon a small, hooded creature. They said it had glowing green eyes, brightest green they had ever seen, and it hissed at them, an unnatural creature. Then it attacked, and they could hear the screams of its victims. 

"They ran, ran and ran, turning corners with no mind to where they were going, trying to get away and ran into something solid. Darkness enclosed them. They thought it was the end then, had hoped it was, but death did not claim them. When they woke, they were on the northern slope of the mountains near the foothills. Terrified at finding themselves alive, they ran straight here. Only on the way, they came upon a pool and the remains of a small child that looked like it had been torn apart. That was the end of whatever sanity they had left." 

"A child?" Aragorn demanded sharply. 

The boy nodded, looking sick. "Some did go to check that out. It had been a little boy who had gone missing, along with his mother just before the first attack. They-- they had gone south with the hunters and decided to explore a little. Neither ever came back." 

"No one looked for them?" Legolas pressed, unable to believe a child could get lost and not be missed. 

"They looked," Abyl insisted sharply, but his anger fled in the face of sorrow. "The hunting party called for them when they were ready to return, and searched the ground for their tracks. When no trace was found, they reasoned that they had returned earlier in the day. The raid saw the father dead, then, and there was no one left in the tumult to insist upon a search before the party left for the mountains." 

Abyl trailed off and nobody spoke. To Legolas, this was yet another example of how fragile human life was. That a child could die so quickly, so long before his time was an atrocity to the elven mind. And it reminded him uncomfortably of his friend's own mortality. 

Aragorn was the one who eventually broke the silence, his eyes locked on the door. "That does not sound like an account of a crazy man." 

The lad shook his head. "That is simply what the Men made their babble. They could barely string two words together, much less a sequence of events-- and that is the tamest version they came up with," he finished defensively. 

Aragorn took no note, staring at the door, oblivious to the world around him as he rode his own thoughts. A creature with glowing green eyes. . . . It seemed so familiar and yet, like when he had first seen that Slyntari arrow, he could not place it. Why would such a thing be familiar? 

He had an impression of dark and crumbling caves, fear-- then he shook it away and looked at the boy. The young face was pinched in a pensive frown. "There is yet more that troubles you," Aragorn observed, choosing to ignore his own worries for a time. 

Abyl jumped. "No!" he denied quickly, but his eyes betrayed him. "I just worry there will be another raid soon. I wonder who will be taken next." 

"You wonder when these strangers will tire of simply stealing your neighbors and instead destroy your home." There was no doubt in Legolas' voice. 

Brown eyes flashed, showing truth-- then a wall slammed down between them, cutting off whatever camaraderie they had, and Abyl's eyes became hard. "You know nothing of me," he declaimed coldly. "I care nothing of strangers!" He stood, stiff. "I will get your supplies." 

Legolas watched the youth leave sadly, seeing in his young eyes a pain older than his age; trials endured beyond his years. It hurt his heart to see children suffer when there was no need. That men could be so cruel to their own, their own young. . . . 

Aragorn did not move where he sat, staring at the wall before him with distant eyes, his thoughts far away. There was no sign of pain or distress on his face, but Legolas knew he was thinking of his brothers: worrying. The fair-haired elf stood and made his way over to the somber human, dropping lightly into a chair near him. The ranger did not react, but the elf knew his presence was noted, even if his friend did not realize it. 

"I do not see why he should be angry," Legolas offered as a way to break the silence. 

His friend stirred, seeming to physically pull himself from brooding thoughts. "You found what he wanted to remain hidden. You got too close. You threatened him." 

"I did not." Legolas frowned. 

Aragorn smiled sadly, his gaze still somewhat distant. "Not physically, no. But emotionally. You spoke his deepest fear, what he had managed to bury, and made him see it." 

He thought that _might_ make sense. A little. "But that is still no reason for him to get angry." 

The ranger pushed his chair back onto two legs, balancing, and looked at his friend for the first time since he sat down. "Defensive," he explained. "He needs to push you away because you got too close. He feels vulnerable." 

"I thought humans sought comfort from others when they were distressed." 

"Some do," Aragorn agreed. "Some do not. I don't think he knows he can." 

"Doesn't know?" Legolas looked at his friend, perplexed. "How could he not know he could seek someone for comfort?" 

"Maybe there is no one he trusts with his thoughts." It was all too easy, as one grew, to think that one had to have all the answers, that doubts were unacceptable, and help should not be sought. It was too easy to pull into oneself and accept all the responsibility for everything because one _thought_ it was expected. That same folly had more than once been his. 

The elf prince cocked his head thoughtfully, then shook it. "I shall never understand Edain," he declared flatly. 

"And the Eldar are so much less confusing," the ranger replied sarcastically, a touch of laughter in his voice. How many times had he declared the same of the elvish race? 

"Of course," Legolas deadpanned. 

"Legolas, mellon nin," Aragorn began earnestly, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. "Any race that will respond to a question with the answer and its opposite can only be confusing." 

Legolas snorted. 

Abyl emerged from a back room bearing a bundle of dark brown and carrying a pair of boots. Shifting his bundle to one arm, he used the other to grab something from behind the bar then stalked toward them with a hard expression just short of hostile. Aragorn dropped back to the floor and waited patiently, his expression bland. 

The boy stopped before them and dropped the bundle on the table before Aragorn. "Here. The rest will be ready by morning." Keys were slapped on the table before Legolas. "Your rooms are upstairs. Look at the number on the key." Without another word, curt or otherwise, the lad disappeared back into the back room. 

Aragorn blinked, nonplused, then calmly began removing Legolas' shoes from his feet. He pulled the boots off the table and slipped them, one at a time, on his feet, nodding in approval when they fit perfectly. Then he stood. 

Legolas looked bemused, but quickly slipped his own shoes back on. "What are you doing?" 

"I'm going to take advantage of my bed." He had a feeling Abyl would not return until they had locked themselves safely away fro the night so he would not need to speak to them. With no further reason to remain near the bar, there was no need to keep the lad from his chores. He picked up the clothes and one of the keys. "Coming?" 

"Might as well," the elf prince answered. "That way I can make sure the stairs don't defeat you." The elf simply smiled at the glare Aragorn shot him. 

The stairway was not lit, but light from both levels seeped into it so it was not dark. The stairs were well-made, the planks of thick and hardy wood. A banister at about weight height ran up each side of the wall, as thick and solid-looking as everything else, much to Legolas' amusement. He was beginning to think this lace was built to cater to trolls, except none of the objects were big enough to actually be of use to a troll that was truly smart enough to use any of them as they were meant. _For Men built like trolls, then?_ He snorted with laughter. 

Aragorn frowned at him questioningly when he reached the upper landing and could turn to face the elf without taking a misstep and either falling down the stairs or tripping up them (likely to be followed by _sliding_ down them, and he really did not want that. Stone steps were painful enough, and _they_ did not leave splinters). "Something amuses you?" he inquired archly, peering over the bundle of cloth in his arms. 

"Just thinking about trolls," his friend replied carelessly, moving past him. 

_Trolls?_ was his initial, alarmed thought. He quickly decided, however, that he did not want to know. Flipping the key in his hand, Aragorn held it up to the light from a nearby torch and found the number inscribed on the metal, then he turned and started walking. A glance at a nearby door gave him a reference point. 

Sharp silver eyes caught sight of Legolas disappearing through a doorway near the end of the hall and he hurried after him. The elf was just emerging when he arrived. "Cozy," the fair being commented wryly. 

Aragorn glanced past him. A bed was pressed against one wall, taking up nearly half of a second, with a small dresser and bedside table being the only other furniture. All in all, there was about four feet of walking space, most of it in a straight line-- assuming one did not walk on the furniture, that was. "At least it's not a cave." 

A withering glare answered him. 

He smiled blithely and glanced around, quickly discovering his room was just across the hall. It had similar furniture, but someone had arranged them differently, somehow coming up with several feet more space than had existed in the elf's room. 

"I think you predecessor disagreed, mellon nin," Legolas said amusedly from behind him. 

"So it would seem," he agreed wryly. He dropped his burden on the bed and began sorting through them, finding tunic, under-tunic, and breeches, all in various shades of brown. He held up the top shirt. "Do you think Abyl's trying to tell me something?" 

"He thinks you look filthy, too," Legolas assured. With a quick smile, the elf back out of the room and closed the door. 

Taking _that_ as a sign that he was supposed to do something about his filthy appearance (and not put out in the least), he obediently began shedding his soiled riding clothes and pulled on the clean replacements. Ideally, he needed a bath, but just changing into clothes that had no been worn for nearly a month straight was bliss. 

Old clothes on the floor, he collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes. 

Abyl heard the strangers clamber up the stairs, their steps quiet thumps like a distant drum, but he did not move. He stood where he was and continued to pack food, listening with half an ear for the movement upstairs to stop. 

It was times like this when he wished his father had not gotten tired of living in Minas Tirith, wished his mother had not been so keen to make her husband happy, wished he had realized what leaving would bring and put up a fuss. With older eyes, he could see that his parents had wanted him to be happy, unburdened by the darkness of war, and he wished they had wanted it less. Had they never left, they would all be safe inside the white walls of his true home, and he would not be scrubbing tables in a bar in a simple town and waiting for two strangers to leave so he could go back to doing what he did best: pretending. 

Pretending he was happy living in the middle of nowhere. Pretending he did not miss his mother more every day. Pretending he did not hate his father for making the decision that brought them here so she could die. Pretending he was strong. Pretending he did not hate his neighbors for being cowards and leaving his mother to stand alone. Pretending he did not hate his mother for fighting them in the first place and giving them reason to kill her. Pretending he did not hate himself for not being there when she needed him most. 

Pretending he was not afraid. Pretending that most of all. And if he tried hard enough, he could pretend he was not pretending at all. He could stand back and look at all the silly, scared people around him and say they were jumping at shadows. He could be normal and pretend nothing bad had ever happened. That was how he liked it. 

Then these two strangers came and without the flicker of an eye tore down every illusion he had created, leaving him here, trying to ignore their presence and pretend everything was okay again. 

The boy sighed and let his hands fall limp upon the table. He stared at them, noting how strong they looked from all the hard word of keeping the inn clean for his father, and wondering when they had become so _weak_ that he should hide from the truth. 

Irritably, he shook his head and walked back out into the bar, the room empty save for the merrily crackling flames of the fire. He could no longer hear movement above him and he set to work cleaning the dishes from the day, for a while doing nothing but watching the suds as they were pushed rhythmically by his rag. Up, down, up, around . . . then dunk. He put the glass down and picked up another. 

Eventually, his mind turned from such mundane paths and started edging down another, picking its way slowly and carefully like it expected him to jump on it and rip it to shreds, moving carefully towards something that had been bothering him since the strangers had arrived and he had been pretending was not there. Something from a different night when he had been alone cleaning. . . . 

He frowned as he worked. Jermy had been there. Excited, as usual; but excited about what? The answer danced away from him, as if determined not to be caught. 

Jermy. . . . Jermy would enjoy the strangers, Abyl was sure. That boy had never lived outside this town, and anything that was different was fascinating, even if it was just walking down the street. He used to sit and listen for hours, raptly attentive, as Abyl told him about his home. Child-like, really, and he would bet everything he owned Jermy would really like to meet an elf and a ranger, especially since he was keen to meet those two strangers Siirl had-- 

His face paled. 

Two strangers. . . . Two. But Jermy had said two _Men_. Surely it couldn't be-- 

He never completed the thought as the door burst open. 

They had reached the trees. 

The river was behind them, they had reached the trees, and still Elrohir followed. Kalya could not quite manage to feel relieved. She had expected him to protest long ago. 

After Elladan fell and Elrohir collapsed, she had taken it as a blessing that he did not fight her. It was that much less time and effort spent trying to get away and going nowhere. He was a silent shadow as she led him in a run, miles passing into mile as the distance between them and their enemy lengthened. When they had reached the river, she felt sure they had lost them. 

And now she had a feeling that was not enough. 

Kalya listened to the slightly too heavy tread behind her, following by dent of something she did not understand, and resisted the urge to look behind her. She wanted to know if he was still hiding in his mind, taking solace in the past to escape the present, unaware of his surroundings. She wanted to know if he was finally seeing things that are or if he still clung to things that were. She wanted to know if his eyes were still empty, but she dared not look back. Some strange child-like fear, similar to the one that claimed if you did not see it, it was not really, told her if she did not look back, he would not demand what she could not do. 

But if there was trouble? If they had not lost the Slyntari so completely as she thought? In a fight, he would be a liability to himself and to her if he had not gotten over it. She had to know. 

A quick glance over her shoulder showed the elf to be six feet back, staring dully off to the side as he followed her steps as if by rote. Not ideal, but not as bad as she had feared. She was just about to turn around when his eyes locked on hers-- horribly intense-- and her fears were realized. 

"Where are we?" he demanded harshly. The deceptively calm words snapped like a whip, clipped by a highly controlled rage that only showed through his eyes. 

_Like a chained animal_, the thought skittered through her mind. She turned, surprised and cursing herself for that surprise. Damn but she hated elves. Forcing a calmness she did not feel, she nonchalantly replied, "Your worst nightmare." 

"I meant an actual place, _girl_," he bit out, his irritation a nearly physical force as the trees rustled around them. 

But that was okay: she was irritated, too. She stared stubbornly ahead regardless that he wanted her to face him and sassed, "We are west of Gondor, east of the Lefnui, south of the White Mountains and north of the Bay." Now she did look at him, and her eyes were as cold as his were hot. "Other than that, it does not matter for we shall not be here long." 

Elrohir's face darkened, settling into a mask of determination as menacing as a storm. "Aye. We shall be going back for my brother." 

_Or not_, she thought, but her tongue would not work to say it. She looked away, turning her attention back to the path before her. "Your brother is lost," she finally replied wearily. "You should Shirk kills him quickly." 

"I will not!" 

"Then you do him a disservice." Distance was good. She did not care what happened to the twins. She did not know them. She had tried to help them. Elrohir was free. One was better than nothing and if she ever saw Aragorn again, she could face him knowing she had done everything she could to help his brothers. End of story. 

"I? _I_ do him a disservice?" Elrohir demanded incredulously. His hand suddenly clamped around her arm and whirled her to face him. She would have fallen had his grip not prevented it. His eyes burned as twin flames and his hand tightened on her arm, but she could not move away as his words lashed at her furiously. "It is your fault he is captured! It is your fault he is alone! If you had taken greater care with your task, they would not have found us missing! If you had not held me back, I could have helped him! I _should_ have helped him! He is my _brother_, my blood!" 

Kalya wrenched her arm from his hand and stumbled back a few steps. She raised her chin and answered as coolly as she could manage, her words ringing with finality. "And he is lost to you. Deal with it." 

Without waiting to see his reaction, the girl turned on her heel and stalked away, away from the elf and away from the camp, her hands shaking. Shirk had never gotten to her so badly. Never. She took a deep breath, held it, let it out. With every step she put between herself and Elrohir, she could feel herself calming, and when she was calm, she locked away all the doubts and concerns. She would not go back. Period. 

Elrohir stood still a moment, watching Sierra retreat as his stunned mind tried to grasp what had just happened. When it did, he set his jaw and sprung after her, determined to make her see. He yelled, "I will not leave him!" 

She did not turn as she answered with unquestioning certainty, still walking further from his brother. "Had you gone back down that mountain, you could not have helped him. Had you gone back down that mountain, you could have done naught but share his fate." 

"He is my brother," he answered, his tone implying far more about the connection than the simple words he spoke. It was a claim and explanation in one, all the reason he needed to do anything. 

"You would die," she countered. 

"My life matters little." 

"Not to him," she rejoined. "_He_ wants you to live!" 

Irritation swept through him. His voice was tense when he spoke. "Do not presume to speak for my brother!" he commanded, reaching out and forcing her to face him again. This time, she seemed to expect it and turned at his touch, moving out of his reach. "I will not abandon him!" 

"You already have," she answered, cold as ice. 

"No." He could not accept that. He _would_ not accept that. They would go back and free him. "When are going back for Elladan?" 

"Never," she declared. Her cold voice, emotionless face and condemning eyes showed no concern for the pain her declaration caused. His heart felt like it had been rent in two. 

Unacceptable," he grit through clenched teeth. 

She remained unmoved. "There is no other option." 

"There is!" he insisted fervently. "While I still draw breath, there is!" He stared back the way they had come, looking for a way. He would find one. . . . 

Kalya clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing as irritation flared through her control. "I could fix that for you," she offered caustically. 

It took only a moment for Elrohir to register what she was saying, and when he did, he sprang. Quicker than she would have thought possible, he leapt at her, slamming into her and pushing her, hard, into a nearby tree. Lights flashed before her eyes as her head struck the bark. She gasped as her air was forced from her lungs. The hand she had placed over a dagger strapped to her thigh was caught in a grip like a vice, and Elrohir leaned his weight against the arm he held across her chest. 

"You will die first," he promised darkly. 

She forced an unsteady breath and reminded him, "Elladan told you to do as I say." Pinned as she was, she knew she had little chance of stopping him if he decided to go through with his claim. Then again, she had always known Death would find her. Perhaps she should let Elrohir kill her. That, too, could serve her purpose. 

"Thanks to you," Elrohir growled, interrupting her musings, "Elladan is no longer here." 

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She had not thought he would go back like that on his promise to his brother. No matter. She raised her chin defiantly. "He knew the risks when he set out," she told him boldly. "He agreed to them before we left, as did you. Is Elven word suddenly akin to that of Orcs?" 

Her eyes widened as Elrohir suddenly leaned against her throat. 

"Speak not another word or I will slit your throat!" he hissed furiously. Rage, pure and unbridled, lit his eyes. His hand wrenched the dagger from its holder and pressed it to her throat just under her chin, his other still constricting her airway. She wanted to pull his arms away, but she kept her hands to her sides. She was no more going to beg Elrohir than she had ever begged Shirk. 

"You foul, miserable creature!" he condemned, his voice soft and lethal. "There is no honor or worth in you! You soil the land upon which you walk, the air which you breath! Spiteful, evil wench: you deserve to die." Inexplicably, he eased up on her throat, allowing her to draw breath. "But for my brother, I will spare your life. He saw some worth in you which I cannot. Will you come with me?" 

At risk of a crushed neck or slit throat, she answered, "You may as well slit my throat, Elf. Not for all the gold and jewels under the sun would I venture back into that camp!" 

Elrohir's jaw clenched. "Coward!" he burst out. "You are not worth my time." He stepped back and angrily flung her dagger into the ground by her feet. "Go rot in hell," he bid. 

"You will beat me there," she replied when perhaps she should have remained silent. She stepped cautiously away from the tree. 

"I will not abandon my brother to torment and death!" he proclaimed, whirling on her suddenly so she took a half step back. His eyes were wide and wild. 

"The only thing you will accomplish is to suffer beside him," she told him, the reason she even bothered when she had known this was coming lost to her mind. "Suffer and die!" 

That, curiously, resolved him. Elrohir drew himself up to his full height and nodded to her solemnly. "If that is all I can do, then so be it." His word had been given, she could feel it. He would rescue his brother. 

Or he would die trying. 

Shaken, resentful, and confused, she nodded coldly. "Go, then and die so I may trouble myself no more about you." 

His eyes were as clear now as she had ever seen them, merciless blue burning with a cold fire, the very essence of elven fury. They seemed to pierce through to her soul. "Trouble yourself no more," he agreed darkly. "It would be a shame if you actually cared about someone other than yourself." 

He spun, the cloak flapping majestically about him, powerful and terrifying, as he stalked away. 

Kalya did not breath as she watched him turn and run back towards the camp where his twin was held and the Slyntari were waiting. Only when he passed out of sight and beyond her hearing did she move. She glared at the trees, at the dark sky that lay beyond, at the ground, at the elf whose words echoed through her head. She glared and summoned every shred of anger she could muster, focusing it to drown out the voices in her head; then she picked up her dagger and ran. 

She tore through the trees as quick as her legs would carry her, sprinted for all she was worth until her breathing grew ragged and her chest ached, until her legs burned and she felt she would have to stop or fall. Then she stopped, planted her feet, and hurled her dagger into a tree thirty feet away. It quivered where it hit, mocking her. 

She glared at it, cursed it, but it did not change. She stalked forward and yanked it from the tree, feeling a vindictive sort of pleasure when the wood cracked. She kept going. She did not feel better, but she would not look back. 

_Review Responses: (I miss my stars and squiggles! sniff)_

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__Rangergirl: Kayla's back? looks confused I thought she's been here. She reviewed last chapter, too. Unless you meant Kalya? raises eyebrows lol. Em, I rather like that one, too. Thanks for voting! And reviewing! g 

Grumpy: That was a cliffie? Oh. Eh, Kayla's not in this story. Kalya is though. g lol. So hard not to get those two little letters mixed up. Curses, huh? I think it sounds rather fun, too. Thanks for voting-- or re-voting! 

Silver badger 31: Really? The first one? thinks for a minute You don't happen to know what that was, do you? I can't remember. blushes You've made my day, you have no idea. Thanks for reviewing! 

Kayla: That makes my day. grins happily Here it is! 

Nerfenherder: lol. Just use her other name. g Sorry, other people kept misspelling her name and I just found it humorous. I hope their reappearance isn't disappointing! 

Veritas and Aequitas: blushes happily This chapter is as soon as I could make it. Hope you enjoy! Now, did you honestly think I was going to make this easy? g 


	18. Problems

Hi! I'm really sorry this took a month and "counts" thirteen days. "looks stricken" I got frustrated then fell in love with Riddick and went on a movie spree (Gothika is really good but don't waste your time on Torque). But now I'm back to writing. With any luck, and assuming moving in at college doesn't take up too much time, I hope to have the next chapter up in two weeks. Valar willing. "g" The soonest you can expect it is one week. I can swear it won't take less than that. Even if I could get it written in two (as has happened once) it would still take a long time for me to type it up. 

Please note: I do not like writing actions scenes. Please double note: I am not very good at them. Up until recently, they've been at a fair minimum. With that in mind, along with the fact that upcoming chapters should have a _lot_ of action, please help me get better by 1) telling me what was good, 2) telling me what was bad, and 3) telling me what could have been done better and how. Intensive, I know, but the only way I'll ever get better is with your honest feedback. Seggestions are always welcome. 

Thank you all for putting up with me. I know how frustrating it is to have an author disappear for months at a time and how hard it is to keep interest in a story that never seems to get posted. I hope I haven't lost any of you to my tardiness, and I hope following chapters reward your diligence. Hannon le. 

Thank you for your reviews. I love and every one. Responses are at the bottom, and I'll not waste anymore of your time with my blabber. Enjoy.****

(Agh! First they take away stars, now arrows. . . What am I supposed to mark breaks with!? Grrrr!) 

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**Chapter 18**

He floated in an exhaustive pool of semi-darkness. The dim light of the room diffused through his heavy lids as he sought a few moments rest before he and Legolas would need to talk and he would be forced to make yet another decision that tormented his heart. With his eyes closed, his mind set adrift. . . . 

_"Ranger. . . . Come, Ranger. . . ."_

He shifted, turning his head restlessly to the side. He frowned and pressed his eyes tighter shut. He was too tired to come. Too tired to go anywhere. 

_"You need not make this harder, Ranger."_

_Make what harder?_ Cold crept upon him, twisting up his legs like a snake, relentless and slow, chilling him with the knowledge that he could not escape and freezing his breath. It shuddered out of him like a beckon of death, hovering in the air like an icy mist. 

He shivered, shuddered, pulling in on himself to fend away the cold, but he could not. His hands caught, jerked. Bonds of ice held him, froze him, sapped his strength. He could not escape. . . . 

_"I already have you. You can end it all . . . make it all go away. You can save them, Ranger. . . ."_

A gasp seared his ears, a quiet whimper of pain. His heart froze in his chest. Dark blue eyes-- empty, broken-- peered at him from the darkness, begged him to make it all end . . . just let it stop. A breath. _". . . estel. . . ."_

__

_"They call for you, Ranger. Don't they? They want you to save them. You can. You can make this all just a horrible nightmare, all just a dream. . . ."_

Twin pained eyes pleaded with him to make it stop. He gasped in the frigid cold. 

_"And all you have to do is answer a question. Can you answer a question?"_

_Yes_, he gasped, but there was no sound. Something snapped nearby. A bloodcurdling scream split the air. He wanted to cover his ears. Tears pooled in his eyes. _Make it stop._

_"Tell me: Who is Isildur's heir?"_

Time stilled, warped, twisted around him, and all he could feel was the cold. The tendrils multiplied, covered him, engulfed his legs and continued up his body. Past his knees . . . his hips . . . up to his neck and twisting around his arms. He was drowning, drowning in the cold and all he could hear was their screams. All he could see was their eyes, so cold. So dead. 

_"You can save them. All you need to do is give me a name."_

_I can save them. My life for theirs. I can save them. I can save them like they saved me. . . . _

"Aragorn." 

BAM! 

[[[]]] 

Abyl jumped. The mug he was holding slipped from his hands and bounced over the counter. Any noise it made was lost to mortal ears as the inn door burst open, slamming into the wall with a crash like thunder. Shocked surprise and dread froze him in place, his hands suspended in mid-motion before him. For a moment, his eyes watched while his mind floundered, unable to comprehend what he saw. 

A tall, slender being wearing dark brown breaches and a dark green long-sleeved shirt, an unbuttoned vest hanging open over top, darted through the door. The pale skin seemed nearly white because of the dark colors and dozens of freckles danced across the person's nose just under pale green eyes that sparkled with a light of their own. Pale red hair, lightened with hints of gold topped the image like wisps of cloud. 

The building rattled like an angry fist-- walls, floor, and ceiling alike-- before the great wooden door bounced back upon its disturber. The young man jumped back with a small cry, his hands held up before him as if to ward off an attack, his eyes wide. The door hit the frame with another echoing crash. 

And Abyl regained his faculties. "Jermy!" he cried, his tone equal parts relief and reproof. He had feared. . . . "What are you doing?" 

His friend grimaced sheepishly. "Sorry, Abe," an answered, timidly-- almost as if he expected it to bite him-- pushing the still quivering door closed until it clicked shut, leaving silence in its wake. 

"What's going on?" he pressed, his curiosity getting the best of him. While his naive friend was rash and excitable, he rarely tried to break the door down in the middle of the night. What had happened since last morning that had excited him so? On second thought, he really did not want to know-- but the damage had already been done. 

Green eyes burned with fervor. "You'll never guess what I found out, Abe!" His voice fairly trembled with ebullience. He perched on the same stool Strider had abandoned earlier. "All our waiting has paid off!" 

"What?" 

"_The Strangers are here!_" Jermy shrieked quietly. 

"The-- what?" His heart, which had resumed beating after his initial fright, froze in his chest, constricting his breathing. His eyes darted to the stairway across the room impulsively. But _surely_ he could not mean those two. It was two _Men_ they were expecting. . . . It was just coincidence that Jermy announced the strangers were in Caivern when he had two guests in his inn. Coincidence. 

"The Strangers!" his friend confirmed happily, blissfully unaware of Abyl's uncomfortable thoughts. "Siirl's seen 'em! Came in on a strange horse, both of 'em together. He's gatherin' his people now, he is. Reckon he's got 'em. Can you believe it? An Elf, here!" 

"Elf?" He latched onto the word with a feeling of sinking horror. _Oh gods, no_. 

"I know! I couldn't believe it either!" Jermy prattled, completely misinterpreting his slack expression. "Who'd a thought them beings would come here?" 

Abyl licked his suddenly dry lips. "Um, did he say where they were?" His mind was racing in circles, running over the same information without any knew results. His gaze strayed to the stairwell once more. 

"No, why--" Jermy followed his gaze. Green eyes widened. "Oh. I didn't wake 'em, did I?" 

"I don't see how you couldn't have," he returned wearily, yet neither stranger had appeared at the foot of the stairwell, angry eyes demanding to know why they had been disturbed and seeking retribution. Maybe they were still asleep? Or maybe they had left? Slipped out unnoticed from an upper window? 

Impossible, he knew, but the hope was a seductive one. He did not look forward to explaining to Strider and Legolas that the Men of Caivern were hunting them; did not look forward to Siirl knocking on his door demanding he give them up. He had not wanted to be involved in this! He had worked so hard not to get involved. Why him? 

"Oh." The boy of Rohan looked back. "But what strange fortune," he said with low energy, his eyes once again alight, "that so many strangers should come on this day." 

"So many?" Abyl challenged crossly. "Nay, there are but the two." 

"But--" Jermy's eyes widened yet further, his expression strained as he seemed caught between wonder and horror. "_Here?_" 

"Aye, _here_. I wish you would have told me true at the first so I would've known to send them away." 

Confusion, hurt, and innocent earnestness transformed his friend's face in succession, and Abyl nearly groaned; what would it take to wake Jermy up to the reality of life? "But do you not want to meet them? 'Tis not often we ever chance to see one of the Fair Folk." 

"I do not wish to be caught in the midst of a fight, Jermy," he countered darkly. 

"Nor do we." 

Both boys looked up in surprise at the calm, musical voice. Legolas stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed and as alert as if he had just woken from a long, deep sleep. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, not quite standing in the room. Abyl felt like he had been caught out, his hand in the sweets jar when the treats had been forbidden. Jermy's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, but for once, he was speechless, his joy to great to allow words. 

"Perhaps you would share with us the reason you expect a fight." 

Abyl nodded. It had been phrased as a suggestion, but he was under no illusion that the elf would not force the issue if he refused. Besides, what did he have to lose by telling them the information? It was hardly a secret. "Do you not wish to wait for your friend?" The ranger had not come down yet. 

Legolas glanced back up the stairs, but his eyes were foiled. The upper landing was empty. He heard no stirring upstairs. More than anything he wished to wait for Aragorn, wished to venture back up and retrieve him-- especially as the commotion should have bolted the human from the bed-- so that he might know his friend was well. It worried him that the ranger had not shown, yet a strange urgency warned him from seeking the man out. "Nay," he answered finally. "I deem time too precious." 

Again, Abyl nodded. His brown eyes were filled with a nameless turmoil. "Weeks ago, Sairen overheard a group of South Men talking of capturing two strangers. You, apparently, though I know not why. The boy went to Siirl, his uncle. Siirl is vindictive and he hates the South Men more than any other. When he learned what they intended, he deemed it necessary to deny them their prize. By . . . killing you." The boy looked at the elf closely, but saw no reaction to his words. "There are those who follow him and more who are desperate. If he commands, they will obey." 

"It would seem," Legolas replied after a moment, "that we have worn out our welcome." 

"I am sorry." He had not the faintest idea for what he was apologizing; it simply came out. 

A gentle smile softened the fair face of the elf. "Worry not. We hold you no ill will. Indeed, it was a welcome distraction to make your acquaintance. You give me hope for future generations of Men, that they may not be mired in hate for other races. Yet now we must be going." 

"I will get the supplies I have gathered," Abyl offered, retreating before any refusal could be spoken. 

"Thank you," Legolas answered. He looked back to the stairwell and was not surprised to find it empty. _Come, my friend_, he encouraged silently. _We run short on time._ He was just about to go up when a voice stopped him. 

"You are an Elf?" 

The elf prince turned to the fair-haired youth before him. He had never seen such wide eyes on a human before. "I am," he confirmed. 

Excited longing made pale green eyes glow, and the young face seemed even younger. "I've always wanted to meet an Elf." 

Legolas laughed lightly. "In that case, I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm." 

"J-Jermy, son of Jaivis." 

"Pleased to meet you, Jermy, son of Jaivis." 

Whatever the boy would have replied was interrupted by Abyl's return. "I have not yet gathered everything, and it is but a fraction of what should be yours but-- Master Strider." Brown eyes stared suddenly past Legolas' shoulder, his forward momentum thwarted. 

Legolas turned and found his own reason to be startled by his friend's appearance. Though his expression was neutral, he looked haggard, worn beyond what his physical exertions could attest. He looked as if he had fought a war in the time since the elf had closed the ranger's door though it was unlikely the boys noted the change. 

Yet despite the startling fatigue, it was the man's eyes which held him speechless: dark and haunted, full of despair, it looked as if a stranger had taken residence in those silver orbs in the short minutes of his absence. Legolas was reminded of Aragorn's appearance in Mirkwood with his anxious twin brothers in tow. 

"What has happened?" Aragorn asked, his calm words a jarring slap amid the turmoil of the elf's thoughts. The silver eyes locked on his, the darkness not quite banished behind a mask of calm, consciously pushed aside by the necessity of the moment. 

Mentally, Legolas shook his head. They would speak of this later, whether the ranger desired it or not. He answered lightly, "It seems we're more popular than we thought, my friend. We are hunted by two groups. Apparently the villagers wish to kill us because the South Men wish us captured." 

"I see," the ranger said. "He did not, really, but he was willing to take his friend's word for it and understand later. 

"Here are some of the supplies you asked for," Abyl spoke up, hoisting the bag onto the bar. 

Aragorn nodded and accepted the bag silently, leaving a few coins in its wake that Abyl either did not see or did not care about. He slipped past the tables on his way to the door, and Legolas stepped up behind him, his blue eyes worried as they tracked the ranger. If he looked anything like he felt, he was not surprised. 

He felt out of place, like he had never woken and this was but a dream or he a wraith passing unseen. In the dark reaches of his mind he could still hear that slow, silky voice, its pleasant tones deceptive to his purpose. He could still hear it, and he knew that voice. He had heard it once before. He knew it, and the knowledge chilled him. 

Shirk. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see dark blue eyes staring at him, familiar eyes, empty of all life or purpose. He could see the desire for death in the dull orbs and his heart rent in two. He could hear their screams. . . . 

The door slamming had been a blessing in disguise, jerking him from that cold world he had slipped into when he closed his eyes, but not even that jarring could erase it from his mind. And deep in his heart, he feared it was more than a dream, more than just a shade meant to torment him and rob him of his sleep. He feared it was something far worse. 

He feared it was the future. Deep in the very core of his being, he feared his dream was a vision and would come to pass. If it was, every sacrifice his family had ever made was in vain. Every heartache, every sacrifice, was for naught. He had broken, and with his fall went every hope his family had held in him. In that last moment, when he would have told all, he had betrayed himself and his family, the faith his loved ones held in him. The echo of his father's voice, speaking his name in rebuke, filled him with shame. And doubt. 

Could he save his brothers? He had hoped so, but now he feared it was a task beyond him. He had faced the Slyntari before and it was not an experience he relished. He had needed his brothers to save him, and Kalya was the only reason they had been able to. How could he ever hope to save them from an enemy he could defeat? 

Always he had known he would sacrifice himself to save his brothers, ever since he was just a boy, but he had never imagined _he_ might be the reason they were in danger. How could he have failed to think the enemy would go after his brothers to find the heir of Isildur? How could he have been so foolish? And now, now that they were in the hands of one he could not defeat, how could he save them? 

_Sauron's servants must never find the heir of Isildur._

__

_You are the Hope of Men, Aragorn. The time has not come for you to reveal yourself to the Dark Lord. You must not reveal yourself until the due time. All will come to darkness if you do._

__

_When you are ready, when the time has come, you will face the test of Isildur and be known to the Enemy, but that time is not yet._

__

_It is not time for Middle-earth to know of Isildur's heir. For your own safety and the safety of others, your name must remain hidden._

__

_For the safety of others. . . ._

Yet Elladan and Elrohir were not safe. The ones who had hidden him, protected him, taught him, were not kept safe by their deception. Harboring him had brought them to this. Could he let them suffer for him? His heart screamed no. Yet could he render all their efforts and care moot by giving himself into the hands of the very enemy they had worked so hard to shield him from? Could he stand by and do nothing while they suffered? 

From the day he learned of his heritage, he had known his life would never be easy. For a time, he had thought he could run from it, could pretend it did not exist and so escape it, but that time was long past. It kept coming back to haunt him. So he held it close and kept it locked up tight, far away from where others could see it, where even he could not see it, and hid his heart from all but a precious few. How could he now choose between the heritage he does not want and the family he always wished he truly belonged to? 

His mind struggled against itself and his very soul ripped in two as he struggled against the two betrayals. Anything he chose, someone would get hurt. He prayed the Valar that he would be the only one to know such heartache, yet he knew in his heart he prayed in vain. That knowledge alone tormented him as much as his dream. 

Barely registering the action, Aragorn pulled open the door and stepped outside. He glanced to either side, scanning his surroundings, by force of habit alone and stood beyond the foot of the stairs before his mind registered what his eyes saw. He stopped suddenly. 

A great press of bodies formed a semicircle before the Black Stallion Inn with more standing behind them, filling the street in both directions. The torches they had missed on their arrival now jumped nearby, floating spheres of light. Around him, metal gleamed. Sharp eyes catalogued swords, spears, pitchforks, scythes and hoes, all brandished by men who looked about as frightened as angry. His eyes flickered over archers standing across from them and whirled, thinking to warn Legolas back inside. 

"Now, don't go!" a voice interrupted, both mocking and challenging. The long-familiar reedy groan of strung bow being pulled stopped him mid-motion as the call had not. "We haven't been introduced yet." 

Aragorn sighed but did not face their latest aggressor, instead imperceptibly continuing his original direction to look at Legolas. He was not surprised to see the elf had his bow in hand, but no arrow was strung. He, too, had been caught off-guard. The ranger had no need to wonder why. 

Him. He was the reason. He was always the reason. And Halbarad wondered why he preferred to travel alone. 

Still perched upon the top step, Legolas met his gaze squarely. In his blue eyes, Aragorn could read his own frustration and resignation, but too, his readiness: _Yes, I'm fine. Lead, and I will follow._ Sometimes, he wished his friend was not so eager to follow him into danger; usually it was when they no longer had a choice about being there. 

He cocked his head questioningly, forcing himself to focus on the present, not the past or future. Legolas shook his head fractionally-- most of his attention was focused beyond the ranger. There were no easy exits, none that could be made quickly. 

Aragorn looked past him, his silver eyes lighting on Abyl and his friend. Both had stopped at the Inn's threshold and stood staring out at the mass confrontation on their doorstep. The fair-haired youth looked surprised, but this seemed to be about what Abyl had expected. The lad seemed to feel his gaze for he glanced down. Nearly ten feet separated them, but for an instant, that distance disappeared. Dark brown eyes stared at him from a solemn face. _I'm sorry_, they said. He could hear it plain as day. 

Then the world fell away. The thunder of hooves, at least a dozen strong, pounded against his ears, thrumming inside his head. The youth's eyes faded before him, replaced by dark clad men with flashing swords. Hatred rode before them and Death came in their wake. Screams welled up, a cry. Figures ran, two, scrambling madly before the onset. He flew towards them, above the Death that destroyed everything around him, agonized shrieks echoing death-cries to his ears. The mud ran slick with blood. 

One of the figures fell. Slid. It clawed, desperately, at the ground, trying, trying to go forward, but pulled back. The Fell Men rushed forward, smelling victory. The other figure turned. 

"NO!" 

But the voice was distant, coming from a world away even as it reverberated in his heart. The world spun, wheeled. Suddenly, he was there, amid the blood soaked earth, thunder engulfing him, the very air sucked from his lungs. He could not breathe, could not move-- suspended among the horror. Squelching mud mingled with shrill despair. His eyes focused on the fallen figure. 

More than anything else, he knew he did not want to see, did not want to know, but he could not move. The Horse Men advanced, drawing all life to them, sucking up everything pure and fresh. The figure resisted, struggled. Its hood fell back. 

Legolas. 

"Help." A whisper. A plea. Breathless. 

Then the Men rode past. He was swallowed in darkness. 

No cry passed his lips, though they opened. No breath found his lungs, though they ached. His heart stopped. Loss ripped through him, keen as the screams that whipped about him but strangely distant. 

He did naught but stared as the same fate rushed to claim him. He felt strangely empty as the distance shrank from twenty yards . . . twelve yards . . . Ten . . . Five. Two. 

Then they morphed, twisting upon themselves and winging around him like a dark and powerful cyclone. The wind of their passage pulled at his clothes and hair, sucked at his very soul, picked him up and twirled him, spun him, and left him . . . 

Amid trees; dry, dead trees. They creaked and moaned. A body hung before his eyes, naked from the waist up-- bruised, bloody. Dead. Glassy blue eyes stared at him. Condemning. Then it doubled, stretched and blurred like a mirror being swung out, the body now two, the eyes four. All still. All motionless. All covered in blood. 

Sword hilts stuck from their guts, terribly familiar. Writing scrawled elegantly across their chests. _ONE MAN TO DOOM THEM ALL. . . ._

A whisper. . . . 

"Your fault. Your fate." 

A sword flashed, stabbed for his gut-- 

"It's rude not to look at someone when they address you, Stranger." 

He found himself staring at brown eyes no longer fixed on his own, Legolas still standing near him, and those eerie trees nowhere to be seen, wooden buildings in his vision as far as he could see. He blinked. 

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Aragorn pushed everything away and cautiously turned to face the ringleader of their most recent trouble. The man had the same red hair of his kin worn long and pulled back in a low tail. His was the look of a powerfully built man gone to seed. Muscles that had once been well defined were now swathed in fat. A stomach that had once been lean now bulged. Something in the air around him, the way he carried himself, suggested he spent much of his time drowning in a bottle. 

The ranger met the fierce gaze evenly and held his hands in plain view by his side. "We have no quarrel with you, good sir. Kindly step aside and let us pass." 

"Let you pass?" the man interrupted, darkly incredulous. "I don't know how people run things where you come from, Stranger, but 'round here, we don't let murderers and thieves run free." 

Briefly, Aragorn wondered if it would do any good to argue. He thought not. "What makes you think we're murderers or thieves?" he inquired calmly, his voice as soothing as he could make it in the hope of talking the man to a diffusion. Maybe they could get out of this without loss of life. The hard glimmer in the man's eyes mocked his hope. 

"Anyone who has business with the South Men can't possibly be anything else." His lip curled at the very mention of the people. 

"We claim no business with these South Men." 

"They claim business with you," the man answered. "That is enough." 

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd like an angry wind. He knew not what these people had endured, nor what horrors they had faced, but it was obvious to him they had been stirred up for this purpose: ensuring he and Legolas never made it out of Caivern. 

Aragorn stared into the mob leader's dark eyes. "What do you propose?" 

The other smiled, whether in triumph of amusement, the dúnadan could not tell, but the man's bearing relaxed slightly. If he thought he had won, his celebration was premature. "Why, putting an end to all this trouble, of course." 

"And how would we accomplish that?" Aragorn pressed, determined to hear what he already knew from this man. To what purpose, even he could not fathom. 

"We kill you." 

He blinked, nonplused. After how delicately this man had lead up to the declaration, he had not expected it to be stately so bluntly. "I see," he managed. 

"They aren't criminals, Siirl!" Abyl's friend burst out suddenly, drawing a startled "Jermy!" from the dark-haired youth. "They're nothing like them foul. . . ." 

"Quiet, Jerm--" 

". . . beast you compare 'em to! They're nice--" 

"SHUT UP YOU STUPID BOY!" The crowd fell silent. Siirl continued with the full attention of the crowd fixed on him, his voice low and dangerous, filled with dark fury. "Don't talk about what you don't understand." 

"But--" 

"Quiet, Jermy," Abyl hissed, overriding his friend's protest. Aragorn was still watching Siirl closely, but he heard the _clunk_ of boots that signaled Abyl had pulled the other back. "Now's not the time. You'll just make it worse." 

"They're gonna kill 'em, Abe. How can it get worse than that?" 

A foolish question, Aragorn knew. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if one so deemed), as an experienced ranger, he had plenty of answers. He grieved that Abyl obviously had enough experience to provide a few himself, but he stopped listening as Siirl stirred himself to talk. 

"Now, listen here, Stranger. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but we're not letting you leave." 

"You mean we can walking willingly to our deaths at your hands or fight back and possibly achieve the same end through more honorable means," the ranger replied, his tone somewhere between wry and disgusted. 

"That's right," Siirl agreed nastily. "What's it going to be?" 

He scanned the crowd, judging what he saw in their eyes, reading their resolve and mind set. He heard Legolas shift behind him and knew without having to look that the elf was ready to act, that he expected to act. It was unthinkable to him that they should submit. Aragorn wished it were so clear-cut to him. 

Yet the ranger could not help but see how many were arrayed against them; could not shake the knowledge that if they fought, many of these men would die. There was simply no way they could escape without paving that way in blood, and he could not bring himself to declare the necessity of taking innocent lives. The villagers wanted to kill them, but they had done him no wrong. It was not wrong to want to protect one's family, one's home. 

Legolas shifted again behind him, impatient with the delay. If he was to die, he wanted to fight. Aragorn licked his lips and resisted the rather strong urge to simply run and never look back. His brothers claimed he did not know when to keep his mouth shut. He was going to prove it now. 

He let his eyes drift over the gathered crowd. "I can see you are all ready to fight," he commented. The group shifted uneasily, unsure of his purpose. He looked at Siirl. "But how many of you are prepared to abandon your families this night?" 

Siirl's eyes narrowed. A rustle went through the crowd. For an endless moment the two leaders stared at each other-- one an exiled king of men, the other a disgruntled barkeeper-- both on equal footing. Then Siirl shouted. 

"SHOOT THEM!" he bellowed. 

The words had barely registered in his ears, the meaning yet far away, when something landed on his back. Hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him to the side and down, twisting him as he fell. Elf and ranger spun to the ground and rolled before gaining their feet, their momentum nearly taking them into the right-most ranks of the mob. 

The men fell back, surprised by their action, and the companions took advantage, drawing their weapons and continuing forward before the others could find their bearings. They drove straight through the throng, forcing their way past three rows before the villagers regained their nerve. Then their plan (if plan it was) fell apart. 

Surrounded, they were stymied. Aragorn blocked a blow high, shoving backwards to knock the blade away, then turned and sliced through the wooden handle of a scythe a farmer had tried to bring down on his head. The curved blade continued down, the ranger hastily jumping clear, straight into the elbow of another. 

He bounced away, off-balance, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he spun to discourage anyone from coming too close. The villagers back up, shifting away from his sword when he turned on them, apparently as unwilling to impale themselves on the iron as he was to impale them, but came back the moment his back was turned. It did not take a genius to figure out that sooner or later they would be overrun, and unless they wanted to die, Aragorn knew they only had two choices: kill the villagers, or surrender. 

The thought of surrendering was a sour taste in his mouth, such a thing going against every fiber of his being. And what of his brothers? How could he possibly save them if he was killed at the hands of these villagers twisted whims? Neither death nor surrender could help them, unless. . . . 

"Wait! WAIT!" he yelled, struggling to be heard over the great mass. "Wait!" The villagers paused, backing up slightly, their weapons still held warily before them. Aragorn kept his sword ready, but made no move to strike. He studiously refrained from glancing at Legolas; he did not want to see his friend's face when the elf understood what he was doing. "We never made our choice." 

A murmur rippled through the gathered. "You made your choice when you drew your sword, Stranger," Siirl's dark voice growled from nearby. Aragorn turned his head and saw the man striding toward him. "Prepare to die." 

"You attacked us first," the ranger reminded him steadily. He could feel Legolas' eyes on the back of his head. "We had no choice." 

"Sure you did. You could have stood there and died like Men. Now you will just die." 

"What would the Black Stallion's Keeper have to say about you committing murder on his front step?" he pressed. "So everyone who came by henceforth would be forced to walk through another man's blood." 

"I care not," Siirl declared, but it was obvious from the discontented whispers of his followers that the rest of the small town did. 

"Not right, steppin' on another man's business," someone near at hand murmured. Agreement spread through the crowd like wildfire. No one wanted the strangers killed before their shops, the dead forever haunting their storefront, their livelihoods tainted by foul blood. Not a one would stand by and let another to the same to their friends and neighbors. Similar sentiments drifted forth. 

Siirl looked like he had swallowed a lemon, a particularly sour lemon, but now the idea had caught and the man could not deny the will of the people, especially as it was by their will-- their willingness to obey-- that he held power. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, pushing forward to stand right next to Aragorn. "We'll take 'em to be judged." The villagers cheered. "Assuming that is your choice," he continued wickedly. "Assuming you hand over your weapons." 

He met the man's feral gaze unflinchingly. Without a word, he twisted the sword in his grip and held it up, hilt first. Siirl snatched it from his grasp, and Aragorn held back a wince as the blade drew a line of blood down his palm. He hoped he had not made a mistake. 

The other stepped before Legolas. "And you?" he demanded, closer than was advisable. 

Aragorn looked over at his friend for the first time since this whole thing started. He was the only one who saw how close the elf prince was to simply running Siirl through and being done with it. Blue eyes fixed on his and he struggled not to look away, the mixture of emotions he saw demanding an answer he could give without words. The only thing he could do was beg his friend to trust him, if only one last time, and hope. 

What ultimately convinced the elf, Aragorn could not say, but Legolas spun his knives and presented them in stony silence, his face a mask of furious calm. Siirl reached out to take them, but Legolas caught the blades firm, jerking them to a halt, and drawing the man's gaze to his own. Something passed between them, then the man jerked back, quickly stepping out of reach and ordering the other to take the rest of their weapons. 

The man who took Legolas' bow and quiver looked even more terrified than Siirl had; the ginger way he held the prided weapons suggested he knew a slow and painful death awaited him if he so much as scratched the beloved bow. Aragorn barely noticed as his own bow and quiver were taken from him, so intent was he on watching Legolas, and only registered the loss when his hands were pulled before him and bound tightly with rope. He watched a moment, then looked at his friend, and was not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Legolas had decided to trust him after all. 

An honor guard of the unmistakably best soldiers the town could boast-- career hunters, Aragorn thought-- surrounded them: two in front and in back with two on either side. The two behind them were archers, their bows out and ready should either elf or ranger try something. The rest of the villagers followed behind, their quiet murmuring nothing but a low, distorted roar. 

Carefully, Legolas drifted closer to him and murmured softly in elvish, "I hope you know what you are doing, Strider." 

"So do I," he murmured back. His friend frowned at him, but he offered nothing more. 

Ill at ease, Legolas returned his attention to their surroundings and left Aragorn with his own thoughts. There was just so much he did not know. What if he found no opening? What if he had just condemned his best friend to death? What if they could have escaped the other way? What if, by giving in, there was no escape? His plan-- it was not a sure thing. 

_"Nothing is,"_ a serene voice answered from long ago. _"Everything path has its own rules and consequences. You can reason the choice, but you cannot know it until it is made. You cannot feel its effects until it is past. Do not look for certainty in the future, my son. It will always disappoint."_

A pang went through him at the memory of his father's words, cold and bitter. He did not deserve Elrond, did not deserve the love and care he had been given, the time. Mere months ago, he had despaired of that love, goaded into thinking no one loved him by an insidious poison. It had whispered that his family lied, that they did not care and thought him weak, hopeless, but it had lied. He had broke its hold. But now he saw. 

It was not that his family did not love him. _He_ did not love himself. The shadow lived in him. It fed off him, his despair of his heritage. After all that had happened, all the pain he had caused, he could have stopped it at any time. He could have and did not because he was too busy wallowing in his own pain to see the cure before him. Truly, how did his family manage to love him, encourage him, support him? How could they stand to let him make his own decisions? Why did his father not lock him in his room, never to leave the house again? Why-- 

"Don't." 

"What?" Aragorn startled, looking quickly at Legolas, disturbed from his tortured thoughts. 

"I don't know," the elf replied. "But don't. I have seen that look before and nothing good has come from it yet." Troubled blue eyes matched him. "Do not trouble yourself with 'what ifs,' mellon nin. Those aren't the problems we have to solve." 

For a minute, the ranger just stared at him. The he looked away and all he could think was that he must be an idiot. "You're right, my friend," he agreed softly. "As always." 

The old jibe brought a brief smile to both faces, but neither was inclined towards levity. "You should talk about it." 

"Yes, but not now." 

"Not now," Legolas agreed readily. "But how about a plan?" 

Aragorn looked back at his friend. "I thought it was the all-knowing Elf's job to come up with the plan," he teased. 

His companion shook his head. "My plan was to fight. Cloak and dagger games are for Rangers." 

"Stop talking, you two," Siirl grumbled suddenly, sounding even angrier than before. "It's bad enough we have to suffer your company without having to listen your voices, too." 

A retort hovered on the tip of his tongue, but the sense Elladan and Elrohir had despaired of him possessing silenced reply and he settled for calling the man ugly names in his head while he studied the city. 

They had left the main road, which was all shops as far as he could tell, and now traveled on a smaller north-south lane. More roads branched off, running parallel to the main, and these were bordered by houses, small tracts of land (brown in winter's chill) spread before them like welcome mats. Some even had low fences, decorative instead of useful. Every so often, a door would open and a worried face would poke out, take in their procession, and disappear back inside. Occasionally, one of the men would break away from the crowd and disappear inside one of the houses; he never saw if they came back. The turned down many lanes. 

Aragorn felt something drip from his finger and glanced down. Blood streaked his hand and gathered at the tip of his little finger, another bead of deep red falling even as he watched. Immediately, he fumbled with the tail of his shirt, struggling with his bound hands to surreptitiously get enough material over his palm to clasp his hands together and staunch the bleeding. 

He succeeded and looked back up just as they turned onto yet another road. Suspicion curled through him. The town was not large and it seemed to him they had been led on a veritable tour of it, down every path though each looked the same and no one called out the locations. But why? He could not imagine the impatient Siirl willingly delaying their execution, nor did he think these people would want them so familiar with their homes. 

_But you're going to die, so what does it matter?_

"Strider?" 

"Hm?" he answered. The ranger struggled not to look like Legolas had startled him. Again. 

"I do not believe all our friends are still with us," the elf answered quietly, the elvish words ghosting between them. 

"What do you mean?" he pressed, quietly urgent. 

Legolas watched Siirl closely, alert for any sign that he was aware of them talking again. "I hear fewer Men behind us. It was a large crowd, but now . . . maybe half. Maybe less." 

"Where did they go?" 

"I don't know. Home, possibly," the elf prince answered. He sounded no more certain than Aragorn had felt earlier about his plan. 

The ranger watched the portly man a moment, studying his mannerisms as his suspicions pulled forth details and put them in their place, crystallizing what was happening in his mind. "He sent them home," he said slowly. Legolas glanced at him sharply, then looked away just as quickly. "I made it necessary when I showed him I could turn his people against him. They altered his plan and he couldn't risk they might demand we be let go." 

"I can't believe they'd let him dictate their actions like that." The elf shook his head. "But when. . . ?" 

"Siirl did not order them," Aragorn contradicted. "Siirl didn't even suggest it. At least not to anyone he wanted to leave. His friend did. His friends, back walking with the others, no different from their fellow neighbors. 'It's late; gotta get up early tomorrow, take care of the family.' 'Hope this won't take long.' 'You don't need to stay, you know. Strangers're caught. Siirl'll take care of 'em.' 'He would at that. Morning comes mighty early these days.' And here we go, walking right past their houses. . . ." It was so simple. Why had he not seen it from the start? 

"So now there's less of them," Legolas summarized, "but they're more willing to simply kill us and we're not armed." 

"And don't know where we're going," Aragorn finished. 

"Perfect," Legolas whispered darkly, then he switched to common and asked, "How do you like the scenery?" 

Alerted by the change in his friend's tone more than the change of language, the ranger was suddenly alert. He scanned the are with keen, experienced eyes, searching for something useful. They needed to find an escape. Nothing presented itself. "Not the sort of place I would want to live," he replied easily. 

"Aye," his friend agreed. "There's not enough trees." 

Silver eyes rose to scan the rooftops. "Legolas, there are no trees." 

"I would plant some." 

"Here?" 

"Nay, over there." 

Aragorn followed where he indicated. No grown man would be able to follow. Their path would take them right past it. "A fine choice," he approved. His gaze swept away and lit on an open doorway more or less right across the street from Legolas' chosen path. It did not appear to lead to a house. "With a cave just across the street." He could not help the amusement that crept into his voice. 

Legolas glanced at him and quickly caught what he was looking at. "Elves were not made for caves," he protested. 

"Neither were Men," he countered, glancing sideways at his friend. "But that does not stop us." 

The elf nodded fractionally to his unspoken question. "No, just proves you lack wisdom," Legolas answered haughtily, "something the Firstborn have in abundance." 

Aragorn snorted. "Deluded, too," he murmured to himself, then continued more to Legolas, "But I suppose that one's not really your fault. I expect anyone would have a big head after talking to trees all day, everyday, for a millennia." 

"At least we don't smell like. . . ." Legolas sniffed at the ranger's clothes, his face a mask of distaste. "What _is_ that smell?" 

The dark-haired man frowned and sniffed at his clothes. He could not smell anything (he had only been wearing the clothes a few hours, after all) but that was not really the point. He glared at the elf. "It's me," he snapped, going for indignant and sounding more insulted. "What _is _it with you people?" 

"_You_ people?" the elf challenged. "At least _my_ people don't ignore the benefits of good hygiene." 

"And _my_ people do, huh?" 

"That's what I said." 

"At least we're not all stuck-up, haughty, tree-huggers," Aragorn spat. 

"As opposed to filthy, squalling pigs?" Legolas demanded hotly. "A fine trade, I think. Who would want to be anything like _your_ kind? You stupid, greedy, foul little mig--" 

Without warning, Aragorn launched himself bodily at Legolas, slamming into the elf and cutting of his denunciation before he could say anything more. Blue eyes went wide, and the ranger twisted around and brought his fists across the other's face. His friend stumbled back, tripped, and fell. A savage roar slipped his lips and he followed the other down, throwing himself atop him. Aragorn's next blow stuck the elf's upraised hands. The next battered through to reach his face and knocked the hair-haired head into the ground. Then hands were pulling at him. 

He struggled even harder, striking out at anything resisting him, fighting to get back at Legolas with no care what he had to break to achieve his goal. And the harder he fought, then more they resisted. Hands multiplied, grabbing him. Pulling him. Still he struggled forward, clawing, fighting, forcing them to focus solely on him. He heard yells. Then he was flying backwards. 

His feet flew out from beneath him. His stomach jumped. He grunted as he hit the ground, hundreds of pounds of human flesh landing on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. Smothering him. He barely remembered to continue struggling. He barely had enough strength to try, but he kicked and squirmed, forcing their attention to remain on him. He stopped only when he could no longer breathe, when he was in danger of passing out. 

The men noticed when he stopped struggling, but did not immediately react, only one by one pulling back with the air of beings who questioned if such was the right action. Many of them sported bruises. All kept their eyes on him, wary of his strength. For his part, all Aragorn did was breath, greedily sucking down air into his tortured lungs, waiting for his strength to return. 

Siirl stalked up to him, a sneer curling his lips. "You're all the same, filthy animals. Can't even respect your own. Get him up. Now--" He turned as his men complied, dragging the subdued man up, and looked for the elf. 

Aragorn followed the heavyset man with his eyes as he was set on his feet. Silently, he gathered himself, waiting for the explosion. . . . 

"FIND THAT ELF!" Siirl bellowed into the dark, his face red with his fury. Immediately, most of the men rushed off to comply, including most of the guards. The leader turned back to him and punched the restrained man as hard as he could. Aragorn gasped as he struggled to breathe, struggled for the air that had just been forced from his lungs by the other's fists. "You won't be alone long," Siirl hissed in his face. 

A cry went up. "Over here. He's over here! Help!" 

"Come!" Siirl and several of the remaining troupe, including one of the archers, hurried away to answer the call, practically disappearing into the night. Before long the ranger was alone with a few guards. None of them were watching him. 

Aragorn let Siirl get well our of sight. Quickly, he elbowed one of the men in the gut, doubling him over and breaking his grip. He stepped back and over, pulling the other guard around and placing him between himself and the archer. A quick jab knocked the guard's head back. He yanked his arm free, then swung his elbow and clipped the man's jaw hard, stumbling him back. The archer moved to try and get a clear shot. The first guard straightened. 

Aragorn ran the short distance between them and threw his full weight into his shove. The man bounced away and collided head-on with the archer. Both fell. The ranger turned, already moving towards the open doorway and came face-to-face with the other guard. He swung by reflex and smashed the other's face. The man flew backwards, bouncing as he hit the ground before laying still. 

Aragorn paused long enough to grab the man's sword. Then he ran. 

[[[]]] 

Legolas heard the shouts and picked up his pace. He wanted to draw the men's attention, after all, not get captured. He turned the corner well ahead of his pursuers and bolted down the narrow lane, halting only when he reached a good place to climb back atop the rooftops. Pausing only to hear how far back they were, the elf scrambled up the side of the building and onto the roof, quickly disappearing over the edge. 

The others turned the corner seconds later and ran for the other end, stopping only when the path divided. Legolas watched them argue about what direction to go and idly rubbed his jaw where Aragorn had struck him. He could tell there would be a bruise there later, but the plan seemed to have worked. He just hoped Aragorn did not have more trouble getting free than he expected or their success would be short-lived because, suicidal or no, he would never leave his friend in their hands. 

His eyes narrowed as the humans split up, a nearly equal number of them taking each path. They did not plan to do that at each division, did they? They would run out of men long before they ran out of streets. He stared after than a moment, then shrugged. No matter. 

A cry went up from the direction he had left Aragorn in. He could not make out the words, but the tone was definitely aggravated. Guess that meant the ranger had escaped. Good. 

He stood easily and carefully made his way across the roof before jumping nimbly to the next, then the next. He moved as quickly as he could while remaining silent and kept his eyes open for anyone who might see him and raise an alarm. When he deemed he was far enough away from the main body of the search that would be raised for them, had moved sufficiently far away that nobody would think to be looking for him here, he changed direction and risked traveling back towards where they had begun. He needed to find Ardevui. She had not been present when they left the Inn, which meant those men had moved her. Valar help them if they had harmed her. 

Legolas reached the roof's edge and crouched. Having just escaped these people, the last thing he wanted to do was jump into their waiting arms. Tired, desperate, angry men were not exactly known to be reasonable-- especially when it came to elves and escaped criminals; and as he happened to be both, he preferred to err on the side of caution rather than ending up sorry and dead. He peered over the edge cautiously, sweeping the streets as thoroughly as possible from a distance. His eyes confirmed what his ears had claimed: there was no one nearby. Not as relieved as he felt he should have been, he nevertheless jumped to the ground. 

The elf landed easily in a crouch and paused to make sure there were still no humans nearby; then he stood and quickly made his way through the darkened streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing whenever men passed by. None of them saw him. He was more than just a little relieved at that. 

As a wood-elf, he was used to moving stealthily and blending with his surroundings. With the evil that had fallen over Greenwood, it was necessary. But it was different to move through a city instead of trees, different to hide from men instead of orcs or spiders, different to be the hunted instead of the hunter. In times like these, he mussed the safety and security of the trees. He missed their soothing whispers and quiet joy at his presence. No matter where he went, he knew he would always feel at home in the trees. And that was a comfort in itself. 

He stepped around a corner, and jerked back, a whiplash of surprise curling around his stomach. The boy before him did the same thing, startled fear in his eyes as he opened his mouth to scream. Legolas lunged quickly and covered the other's mouth firmly with his hand. 

"Sh, it's just me," the elf prince whispered when Abyl resisted. Recognition flared in the boy's eyes and he relaxed. "What are you doing out here?" 

"Looking for Jermy," the dark-haired youth answered when Legolas removed his hand, his brown eyes flashing with irritation as he looked towards the street. "He ran out when my back was turned. Disappeared before I could drag him back." 

"Maybe he went home," the elf offered. 

Abyl shook his head. "That's too sensible for him. Besides, I already checked his home. He's not there. I've gotta find him! I just know he's gonna do something stupid and wind up killed." 

The elf prince did not respond immediately, letting Abyl's bitter, worried words play through his mind as he stared out into the street. It was not lost on him that the boy's last statement made it all but impossible for him to send the youth home; he felt strongly he should do just that. He sighed and finally looked at the boy. Concern shone in the brown eyes; concern mixed with a tormented understanding of the situation. 

He nodded slightly. "I I see him, I'll send him to the Inn." 

"For all the good it'll do," Abyl replied, but Legolas could read his gratitude in his eyes. Quickly, the boy slipped away, exiting the alley without looking back. 

The elf watched two men pass seconds behind him, neither glancing his direction, then turned and went the other way. It would do no good to get it into Siirl's mind that the lad was helping them. Men like him could be unpredictable in their cruelty; he had learned that the hard way. 

He ran into no one else as he carefully made his way back to the Black Stallion. The wide street was strangely deserted, its great expanse desolate with the quiet shops its only companions. The only immediate sign of human occupation was the torches that burned at lonely intervals along the way. 

It disturbed him that there would be torches along an uninhabited street without the masters present. His eyes danced among the shadows, but he could not penetrate their depths. He hovered uncertainly at the road's edge before back away further into shadows. It did not feel right. He knew not if it was a trap, but he wanted to know it a whole lot better before he walked into it. 

Ghost-like, he retraced his path and turned on to a smaller road that paralleled the main road. He bypassed four intersections (pausing to listen carefully at each one for human activity) before taking another road back towards his destination. He carefully repeated his previous examination from the street's edge, concealed in shadow, and came up with the same results. That meant it either was not a trap, or the villagers could just hide better than he could discern in their own homes. 

He knew which one he would choose. And he blamed it on Aragorn. 

Stubbornly restraining a vexed hiss, Legolas eased back for a different approach. One more look could not hurt. Besides, maybe he would find out where all the men had disappeared to. He hoped their absence did not mean Aragorn was in trouble. 

He feared it did. 

[[[]]] 

The shout rang in his ears as he darted through the open doorway. His footsteps thudded sharply on the hard-packed floor and echoed back to him faintly. Entering the building was like having a veil thrown over his eyes, the inside much darker than even the night, but he did not slow. How long it would take his captors to rally to the guard's call, he did not know; but he intended to be well hidden before they found him. 

His eyes darted back and forth as he ran, struggling to pierce the darkness and see what manner of building he had entered. At first, he saw nothing, and his mind struggled with his feet lest he trip over what he could not see; then shadows emerged, darker black as his eyes adjusted, and he could trace low walls lining either side of the building, each divided into parts: a stable. He could smell the hay. 

Suddenly, the floor was not where it was supposed to be and his foot caught. He pitched forward, the darkness rushing towards him smothering, and tried to catch his feet. Metal clattered, and skittered, but he could not see it. He tried to use his hands, but they bound, and he fell. The tip of the sword struck the ground and caught, ripping the hilt from his grasp. It struck his chest as he slipped to his knees, a sharp blow, and overwhelmed the pain in his legs. He gasped for breath and leaned sideways, trying to curl forward around the blade, feeling like he had just run headlong into a wall. 

It hurt to breathe; yet he could not rest. Footsteps sounded behind him and heralded the approach of light. He could just make out the edge of its glow against the wood around him, even that weak light bright after such deep darkness, and knew pursuit was nearby. 

He caught sight of what had tripped him as he clambered awkwardly to his feet and vaguely wondered what stable boy would have caught the whip for leaving a box of horseshoes in the middle of the stable had he not fallen over them. Still trying to breathe, he tucked the blade under his right arm, pressed against his side in a bid not to kill himself if he tripped again. Oh, he ached. . . . 

The ranger forced his feet to carry him before he could dwell any further on his pain knowing it would only hinder him to linger on it. No bones were broken and bruises would fade in time, but not he was caught. So while it was even more awkward to run with his bound hands anchored to trapped sword, he did not let it stop him. He gained the exit as they arrived at the entrance. Their exclamations were lost to his ears, but their presence was not. 

Aragorn glanced quickly to either side, then went right. Perhaps two dozen feet took him to the road that stood perpendicular to the one he had escaped. He turned left, increasing the distance between himself and where he had left the guards. And, since the men had seen him turn towards the road, hoping they would believe he sought to leave. Or go the wrong way entirely. For that, though, he needed to get off the road, and quickly. 

He glimpsed a narrow crevice between two houses and darted into it. At the last second he saw it was too narrow to accommodate him and skipped sideways, releasing the sword from under his arm and drawing it close to his chest with the tips down. His back scratched the wall behind him, catching his shirt and biting at his flesh, but he did not stop and only eased forward a bit to relieve the friction. He stopped before he emerged from the other side. 

Slowly, he eased forward to peer around the corner. Few were on the street, but those who were, were knocking at doors and rousing their fellows. Whatever advantage they had gained with the smaller numbers was about to disappear, and the ranger doubted the villagers would have any qualms about kill them where they stood now that they had been captured once and escaped. _Succeed or die_, Aragorn mused distantly. _The story of my life._

A rush of sound whipped his head around the other way in time for him to glimpse eight-- maybe-- men rush past. They continued past him without pausing, and the ranger looked back at the still calm street where men were just beginning to gather. For the moment, it appeared he was safe. Now was as good a time as any. 

Cautiously, so as not to attract any unwanted attention, Aragorn eased back into surer shadows. Once there, he dropped the tip of his borrowed sword into the ground and pushed it down several inches. Then, mindful of the close space, he set about freeing his hands. It did not take long, but it gave him a moment to think. 

He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he could not remain here. It would only be a matter of time before someone found him and simply hiding accomplished nothing. He still needed to find his brothers, and he had a suspicion that the South Men would be able to help-- preferably indirectly. Before that, though, he needed to find Legolas. Which meant what? Where would the elf go once he evaded pursuit? 

The ropes snapped, finally releasing him to move his hands independently, and he straightened. Sharps spots of pain caused by his earlier encounter with horseshoes reminded him of another question: where was Ardevui? He knew when he found the answer to that question, he would find his friend. He just hoped the villagers did not think of it, too. 

He peered into the street. Fifty meters to his right, two hunting groups met. 

"Have you found the Ranger?" 

"Does it look like it?" 

"Well, he can't have gotten far. Dorir and Javis would've found 'im. Make sure you search all the side streets. Tanner! Set up guards on every street! We don't want 'em sneaking by while our backs are turned." 

The ranger pulled back. A handful were heading his direction and the last thing he wanted to do was get caught here. Moving quickly, he retrieved the sword and tucked it in his belt, then quickly shifted over several feet and looked up. It was a good thing these buildings were not tall. 

He pushed his hands against the building before him, forcing his back against the wall behind him, and used the tension to lift his feet from the floor without dropping him to the ground. In the moment before he shifted his weight to his legs, he thought this climb would be painful. Once he had one foot secured against one wall and the other foot against the other wall, he _knew_ it was going to be painful. And awkward. 

In truth, the sides of the buildings were a touch too close together for any stretch of the word "comfortable," but he had no time to dwell on such difficulties. It would be a miracle in itself if he had enough time to complete the climb even if he did not borrow more trouble. So he merely grit his teeth and pushed upward. 

_People do this for fun?_ was the first thought to cross his mind. His wrists felt like they were going to break, and he could hardly bring his legs up far enough to make the motion worthwhile. The top edge seemed to loom over him, impossibly far away, and the men's footsteps were too fast. He could fee his heart racing in his chest and just kept on, inching up bit by bit, praying something would distract their search until he reached the top. 

_If I can just get high enough, maybe they won't see me._ It was a slim hope, but he was willing to cling to whatever he could find because it made the task just that much easier. What he really wanted was to change positions. Too bad his shoulders were too broad to allow it. 

He could hear their voices, muffled by the wood that stood between them. The words were lost to him, but he could tell they were getting closer. He tried to move faster. Up. Brace. Up Brace. Over and over, faster and faster. But he could only go so fast. This method had never been meant for speed climbing; safety, but not speed. 

The ledge hovered three feet above his head. He kept his eyes locked on it, as if his eyes could reach out from his head and latch onto the edge like another set of hands. Closer . . . closer. . . . He dared not even think as the men approached his crevice, their steps now audible to his ears. Six feet away, he judged them, but unless some miracle occurred, he would still be visible by the time they moved within sight. 

Still he kept moving. Maybe they would not peek into this crack, deeming it too small. Maybe they would not think to look so high to find him. Or maybe, if they did, they would not be able to make him out against the dark sky. _Or maybe I'll sprout wings and fly away_, he thought derisively. The only thing he was currently sure of was that he would make it to the roof before anyone who followed him. 

_Unless they shoot me down_, was his next happy thought. Yet now the roof was in reach. Just a little further . . . push, brace, push! He stretched his hands up and caught the top corner. He had made it! 

"Do you see him?" 

Aragorn froze, his elation quickly fading, and glanced hesitantly towards the voice. A head was poked into the tight space, and the ranger held his breath. He was not worried about someone catching him before he could get up; he was worried about how he would ever hope to get back down if they knew where he was. On the rooftops, he would be trapped. Silently, he urged the man-- boy?-- to go away. 

"What are you looking in there for?" a third voice demanded. The young man looked at him. "Only a child could hid in there. Search someplace useful." 

"Yes, sir." 

The ranger dared to breathe a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. 

As the young man pulled back, he glanced once more down the narrow alley, remembering when he used to play there as a boy. He and his friends would race each other to the top to see who could climb fastest. Idly, his eyes traced the path he had climbed so often and stopped just before the top. His brow furrowed as he squinted to make out what he saw, then he gasped. 

Aragorn looked directly into the young one's eyes. With desperate strength, he hauled himself onto the roof, kicking off with his legs to get enough height. 

"He's here! He's here! He's on the roof!" 

One of the men rushed to the boy's side in time to see the ranger's legs disappear from view. "He's on the roof!" the man agreed. 

"Get up there! Guard the street! Don't let him escape!" 

Aragorn scrambled to his feet, ignoring his aches and pains, and took off across the wooden beams. His steps thumped loudly, pounding across the slats like a great drum. No one who lived inside any of the buildings would be able to miss his presence. 

He did not pause as he reached the end of the roof, jumping easily to the next barely three feet away. Quickly coming to the next gap, he did the same. Five more separated him from the next large intersection, a gap of at least eight feet. He could hear others clambering up behind him, making it impossible to turn back. 

He headed straight for the ledge and ran harder, his eyes focused on where he would place his final step. The distance disappeared impossibly fast, scrolling by like it was racing him to the finish. He could just hear several men behind him, duplicating his jumping run, over the wind whistling past his ears. He hit it and cleared the jump easily, quickly resuming his pace on the other side. The next intersection was eleven houses away. Three intersections after that, the town ended. He did not think he would be able to run that far unhindered. He needed a plan; one that involved more than just him running. 

Word of his location spread rapidly. It was not long before men were spilling onto the roofs before him as well as behind, drastically cutting his time in half and limiting his options. More and more, it was looking like he would need to fight them. And he was running out of resolve not to as surely as he was running out of roof. 

Desperately, he cast his eyes over his surroundings, searching . . . searching . . . but nothing came to him. Bare, hard-packed streets were even more dangerous than increasingly crowded rooftops and just as free of inspiration for how he could get out of this without harming his fellow men. He should never have come here. _I should have listened to Legolas._

Legolas. 

A star-burst of worry shot through him, tempered only by the knowledge that if he was helpless to help himself, he was certainly helpless to help his missing friend. And even that was tempered by a somewhat amused thought: at least with the town hunting me, Legolas will not have to worry about discovery. _I live to serve_, he thought wryly, though perhaps not for much longer. He was out of time. 

Aragorn made one final leap, then drew his borrowed sword and swung it sharply at the first body to come within range. The lad ducked so hard, he fell, hitting the ground like he had been thrown. The ranger continued past him without breaking stride, but the next in line had his weapon ready in hand and met the stranger head-on, checking the outsider's blow and grinding his momentum to a halt. A third stepped up and swung his sword like a club, a blow easily ducked, and holding his blade like a lit firecracker. 

Choosing to save the last attacker from himself and immediately neutralize an opponent, Aragorn momentarily ignored his more skilled opponent and quickly moved into the other's defenses, knocking his blade aside and delivering a hard blow to the man's face. His sword clattered to the roof as the man fell backwards. Aragorn kicked the dropped weapon over the side of the roof as he skip-jumped sideways to avoid a jab at his chest. 

He parried the next blow, slowly easing backwards, and swung his blade around to meet the follow-up. Iron clashed one-two-three-four times as the man walked him backwards, never once coming close to penetrating the ranger's defenses. Aragorn had to admit the man was good-- good in the way of a student who has learned his craft well but not yet challenged the techniques in a true battle where the other's blood is the prize. Which was not to say his skill could not be deadly. 

Aragorn parried a low-high sweep with a downward cut and a little hop backwards, catching the blade and moving him out of range. The wood _thumped_ as he landed, but too loudly to be from his own jump. The vibrations came from behind him, and he did not need to look to know he had company. Had he not already known, he would have guessed by the way his opponent's eyes flickered past him on his next strike, the blows still coming as quickly and skillfully as ever. 

He was not interested in double-teams when he was down one of his own players. 

The ranger took another step back under the assault, moving closer to the trap, then check-thrust the next blow. It knocked the Rohirrim guard back and Aragorn quickly ducked the hurried blow from behind him, whirling around it its wake and slapping his sword, broadside, against the man's wrist. The sword clattered immediately to the roof, chased by a pained exclamation. 

Aragorn brushed past the man, got a small running start, and jumped the four-foot gap between his roof and the next. For the moment, no one stood near enough to challenge him, and he gladly took the opportunity to breathe and look at his surroundings. A glance the way he had come showed more than a dozen armed men approaching him in a group, and at least as many more converging from the opposite direction. When they reached him, he was no longer going to be able to play nice; he was going to have to play for keeps. 

He turned to face his closest adversaries, prepared to end it here and now if they pressed the attack, and caught a voice on the wind: 

"Get him! Bring 'im down! Filthy murderer! He don't deserve to live!" 

Siirl. More important, though (at least to Aragorn), was the sound he caught beneath the heavyset leader's voice: hoof beats. Siirl was riding a horse. Too long used to sitting on his rear all day consuming spirits, Siirl had foundered. Running after fleet-footed elves and stubborn rangers was too much for the man's failing health, and he had turned to his faithful steed to make up the lack in his own stamina. The first glimmerings of a plan tickled the edges of his mind. 

Seeing that his attackers were staying put and waiting for the rest of their friends to catch up, Aragorn cautiously eased closer to the street-edge and peered at the scene below. At least a third of the number that had greeted the strangers outside the Black Stallion had arrayed themselves on the streets below, most of them very young or very old. The rest were either on their roof with him or (presumable) still hunting Legolas. Amid the ground crew, rode Siirl, whirling his steed around in a fairly consistent circle and shouting mixed instructions and encouragement. 

With his eyes, Aragorn measure the distance, judge the time. He picked out a path and was fervently grateful that neither his brothers nor Legolas were here to see this. He had a feeling none of them would approve. But what else was he to do? He had already tried everything he could think of. And maybe, just maybe, if he failed he would not have to face Legolas nor his brothers or father and explain what he had been trying to do. But if the Valar love him (or pitied him) enough to do that much, maybe they would simply help him actually succeed. 

The ranger flexed the hand gripping his sword and waited for the right moment. when Siirl reached the trigger in his circuit, Aragorn looked up-- straight at the waiting Rohirrim-- and charged. 

They tensed and stood their ground as he jumped the gap, prepared to meet him but not approaching. Good. He followed the path he had drawn in his mind and turned towards the roof's edge, approaching it quickly. Without looking to see if the man was in the right place, nor pausing for second thoughts, Aragorn jumped. 

He looked down only when there was no turning back and caught the surprised stared of many of the gathered. But not Siirl. He had not noticed his men were standing, staring, and he was in just the right spot, his back to the ranger. Just as Aragorn had intended. 

The dark-haired man made no sound as he fell, and landed on the horses back with a sharp jolt, his arms immediately encircling the angry Rohirrim. The horse reared, surprised, voicing her protest at the added weight to the night. Somehow, both men stayed on, Siirl's reflexes up to the task of making sure he was not thrown off his steed's back. 

The moment the front feet touched down, Aragorn bashed the sword hilt into the other's head. The man jerked but held on stubbornly, and the ranger hit him again, this time continuing the push and shoving the man sideways off his mount. By that time, the shock of him jumping from the roof had worn off, and the people charged, screaming warm cries to the night. 

Quickly, Aragorn shifted forward into the saddle and took up the reins. He pulled them around hard and kicked sharply at the mare's belly. Already distressed, the horse bolted obediently, bearing the ranger away on her back. 

The charge faltered in the face of the rushing horse, the war cries shifting to startled cries of dismay while they jumped out of the way. Calls to mount followed the man, more horses adding their cries to the din. Aragorn never paused. He rode to find Legolas, ignoring the pain that wanted to consume his whole body and trying not to think that he had just given them a whole new set of problems. 

[[[]]] 

It did not take long for Legolas to determine the street was as empty as it appeared. No one peeked out the doors; no one called out an alarm; no one moved to intercept him. The only company he had as he searched the ground for tracks was the cold, lonely wind and the flickering torches. Far from being reassuring, it heightened his unease. 

It did not take him long to find Ardevui's tracks, either, despite the confusion of so many tracks where he was searching. The villagers had made no effort to hid the tracks, and he was able to pick them out easily once he passed the concentration of human footsteps that confused even one another. The single set of fresh unshod prints, easily recognizable to him now, stood out amid the older bustle of life, placed atop shod hoof prints. 

From there, it did not take him long to find Ardevui herself. The tracks lead to a small stable on the western side, two blocks south of the northern Main. There was no more appearance of human life here than there had been on the main road; but while he knew that emptiness to be genuine (however unfathomable), he sensed this one was not. The footsteps that went in never came out. 

Legolas studied the entrance a moment, eyeing the many prints that marched in and out of the opening. To his eyes, there seemed to be a lot of them for so small a stable. Six horses, he deemed, could be quartered here. But how many men per horse? One for all six? One to each? More? 

Not yet willing to get closer, the elf prince circled the stable while he thought, searching out another entrance to the modest structure. He was no ranger; his tracking skills were in no way comparable to his friend's outside the familiarity of the forest. It was beyond his skill to tell if all the ones who had entered through the front door were as they seemed. He knew not enough about the horselords to even guess if there was duplicity afoot, but he was also no fool. 

_When in doubt, plan for the worst._ He had forgotten who said it, but a faint memory suggested it was one of the twins. And was almost certain something like "When with Aragorn, plan for the worst anyway," had followed, and since he had not said it, that meant it had to be one of the twins. No one else teased the young man so mercilessly. 

The rear entrance was smaller and located on a back lane no more than six feet wide. No lights were lit and no fixtures were set up to accommodate them. There was an air about the place that said it was never used or, at the least, never seen. The air was close. The elf's sharp eyes caught no sign of any attempt to make this place livable, but he did see something else. Footprints. Many of them, crossing and overlapping each other so few were whole and it was difficult to tell which way they were going, light or no light, skill or no skill. What he could tell, was that there were no hoof prints mixed in with the shoe shaped indentations, which meant no horses had been lead out this way. 

Blue eyes drifted up from the prints to the doors they disappeared behind. If he had not known where to look, he would have missed them entirely, so well did they blend with the rest of the structure. A simple metal brace seemed to be the handle, but unless he was mistaken, the door was bolted from the inside. 

"Wonderful," he murmured. He looked back to the tracks. How many people had entered? How many had left? And when? How many were still waiting inside? "What do you think, Strider?" he asked rhetorically to empty air. Only the wind answered. 

Quietly, he worked his way back to the front and crouched near the door, his back to the wall. He listened carefully, but the uneasy stomping of a horse made it difficult to hear anything. He thought he could hear footsteps but could not be sure. Cautiously, he whistled a low, slow note not easy to pick up, and waited to see the response. 

Nearly immediately, a loud whinny punctuated the quiet, somehow sounding both relieved and frustrated. He could almost hear the unspoken words of the greeting: _"Legolas, you're here! Bless Eru! Get me away from these dung-brain humans. Quickly."_ A smile crept onto his face, but his amusement was short-lived. 

"Quiet, you," a man ordered from inside, banging a stick against the pen in an effort to force the animal back. He could hear the click of it hitting wood. The only thing that saved the man from the prince's wrath was the fact that he heard nothing to suggest the stick had struck his horse. 

"Why've we gotta keep 'er here anyway?" a young-sounding voice asked as Ardevui fell silent, her imperious snorts speaking eloquently about the extent of her patience. 

"Never you mind, boy. Just do as you're told." 

"Hold your tongue, lad," a third interrupted, his voice deeper than the last. "Both of you. We may have company." 

Legolas pursed his lips irritably. So either the man had heard him or he had been tipped off to his presence by Ardevui's reaction, and now at least three people would be waiting for him with only one way in. Fine, he would go fast. Distantly, he heard Ardevui snuffling, the snorting gusts almost rhythmic. He shifted his back, studying what he could see of the inside and trying to decide how bog or what risk he wanted to take. 

Straight in might take them enough by surprise that he would be able to take them all out. But it could also get him killed outright. If one of the men was an archer and stood ready, him rushing straight through the front door would definitely be enough to get him shot. Ducking in might counter that, but that would leave his position known to his adversaries and him without a weapon. He would have to rely on superior skill and speed both ways, but where did he want to come from? He wished he had his bow. 

Settling, he tensed in preparation to run. 

"What's that?" 

He frowned. The kid could not have heard him, could he? 

"What's what, boy?" 

"Don't you hear anything?" 

"What, now you're hearin--" 

"Quiet, Dirno. Our job's to take care of the horses. Nothing more." 

"But I hear something!" 

Alerted, his attention redirected to the vague sound in the distance, Legolas heard it, too. Or rather, he finally took note of it. He had ignored it, thinking it little more than his imagination or a normal occurrence this far south, a distraction he did not need. Now, though, he wondered. Listening, he thought it sounded like many raised voices: yelling. 

"What do you think it is, boy?" the third man asked, apparently more willing to take the youth's word than their companion." 

"Don't know. Yellin' maybe." Legolas could hear the frown in his voice. "Say, you don't think they caught them strangers, do you?" 

His heart almost stopped. But no-- he could not think like that. Aragorn was a skilled ranger and a grown man (strange though it was to think that), and he was more than capable of taking care of himself, even if he was occasionally reckless. Legolas had never before met a man so skilled at disappearing as Strider, so it should not be a stretch that he could disappear here just as well, in a place he understood better than Legolas himself. Yet why else would there be yelling? 

It was all too easy to picture Aragorn caught and bound, tied and placed before an executioner. It was all too easy to imagine the cruelties even such a simple people could be driven to in their rage and fear. What would they do to Strider if they caught him? Would they use the ranger to catch him? As his fear built, it was only by reminding himself he could do the human no good unarmed and on foot that he managed to stay where he was. Strider would survive until he was able to help him. He had to. 

Legolas breathed out slowly, forcing himself to relax and focus on the moment. He listened, poised, waiting for his opportunity, the moment when their attention would be diverted enough to let him enter. _Patience_, he cautioned himself. _The time will come._

"Reckon we'll find out, sure enough." 

"Once all the fun is over," Dirno added sullenly. 

"But if they've got the Strangers, there's no need for us to be here, is there?" 

"Sit down, boy," Dirno ordered. "We're to keep the horses whether we want to or not." 

"But what if they need help?" 

"Not from the like of you, they won't," Dirno scoffed, and was overridden by the elder. 

"You don't need to be worryin' 'bout 'ifs,' Traven. Them horses are right there before you, and there's no 'ifs' in 'em." 

"But, Jay--" 

"Cut your whining, boy!" Dirno snapped suddenly. "You ain't goin' nowhere and that's that." 

He could hear the youth slump dejectedly onto a bench and knew the lad to be to the left, more or less where he had intended to go, if a little further in. But where were the other two? His sharp ears caught the boy's reply and he could not help but smile. "Bet they'll be real glad we stayed put when they come back for their horse after killin' everyone else." 

"Glad enough to eat you, I reckon," Dirno quipped darkly, having also heard. 

"No one's gettin' eaten," Jay cautioned. "You hear that?" 

Legolas did. By the silence that followed, Dirno and Traven did, too. The thunder of hooves. 

"They're mounting up," the boy breathed, whether in awe or fear, the elf could not tell. 

"Reckon they're horse thieves, too?" Dirno posed. Three pairs of footsteps crept towards the open street. Silently, Legolas faded back into shadow. If the others were mounting, that meant they did not yet have Strider. It also meant they would need to leave quickly, before they could be cornered on these criss-crossing streets, and he needed to get Ardevui before they could try. 

Three men stepped from the stable into his line of sight, all listening intently. The youngest could not be more than seventeen (Legolas would have bet fifteen), and Dirno looked to be about Aragorn's age, thought probably a year or two younger. Jay was harder to place but it was obvious he was older than the other two. There was a calmness about him that only came with age and experience. All had the same red-gold hair, and but for their different ages, he would never have been able to tell them apart by looks alone. 

Seconds later, another villager ran into view. He headed straight for a small building, little more than a shed, without once looking around. "Hail!" Dirno cried. "What news?" 

The man turned. "Oy! Fiend stole Siirl's horse! Made chase it is! No one can catch 'im!" 

"I could!" Traven said to his companions as the other disappeared. 

"You'll not! Mind the horses, boy!" Dirno ordered, already running off. This is man's work." The other man emerged leading a chestnut mare. 

"Jay--" 

"No, my boy. There's till one left. He may yet want his horse." 

Legolas watched the old man walk back inside, leaving Traven to stare after a dream he was denied. Somehow, the boy reminded him of Aragorn, though he had not known the ranger at such a young age. But something pulled at the elf-- perhaps his eagerness to prove himself-- sparking a memory, and he marveled at the innocence of youth. An innocence that had long been absent from his friend's gaze. 

His eyes locked on the motionless youth, the elf prince silently crept up to the entryway and ease inside. Tearing his eyes away, he quickly scanned the interior to find where his ears said the man was, and found three sets of wide horse-eyes staring straight at him, their eyes sparkling dark pools in the faint light cast from the rear of the stable. Jay's shadow bobbed from somewhere near the light, and it was only with his sharp eyes that he made out the old man's figure among the jumble. He was sorting through something on the floor. 

Moving over toward Ardevui, he inwardly debated simply trying to take Ardevui or knocking the man out first. The second option won out. He greatly preferred handing the man a headache to possibly having to inflict worse if leaving proved more difficult than he bargained for. He rubbed Ardevui's nose in passing and moved quickly to the back, picking up a horsebrush on the way. In seconds, he stood behind the man. He murmured a quiet apology as the man looked up, catching sight of his shadow, then brought the handle down sharply against the back of his skull. 

A quiet _crack_ echoed in his ears, and Jay slumped forward bonelessly, saved from hitting the floor by Legolas' strong arms. Tenderly, he positioned the elderly man as comfortably as he could on the floor before striding briskly back to his horse. 

"Come, my girl," he murmured affectionately. "It's time we left this place." He did not bother with saddle or bridle, deeming they would take too long, and instead grabbed ony one of the bags that had been attached to it because it held a spare knife. He swung the pack over his should before nimbly jumping onto Ardevui's back. 

Traven was staring at him when he look up. Legolas inclined his head regally. "Take care of your friend," he bid quietly. The boy's eyes darted in Jay's direction and Ardevui burst forward. Instinctively, the boy jumped out of her way, still ruled by shock. He had not expected to come face-to-face with one of the strangers, not expected it at all. 

Legolas paused once he was under the stars. He could hear horses rushing the distance, distorted by the buildings, the pounding of their hooves a throbbing pulse in the night. The commotion he heard had to mean the ranger was yet free, but he worried about the lengths these villagers were being pushed towards. It had to be only a matter of time before the human was killed. 

He urged the mare forward only to bid her stop a moment later as mounted men blocked his path. The first thing he noticed was their dark hair, his first realization that they were not Rohirrim. In that first startled moment, he took in their dark clothes, dark cloaks, and dark air. Perhaps some would have likened them to rangers, thus did they appear, but no one who knew the noble travelers would ever mistake them for such. There was something in their eyes and their manner, a malicious savagery, that promised cruelty and pain where the rangers ever promised security. 

He knew them without ever having seen them before, without anyone naming them before his eyes. His blood went cold. The South Men. Impossibly, they had just gained a new set of problems. 

Away to the east, the first finger of dawn stretched from the horizon. 

[[[]]] 

_Review Responses:_

**Shaodwfaxgal7**: "blushes" Wow, thanks. I'm really sorry you missed it, and by so little. Truthfully, I had tried to post earlier also and couldn't, so I know eactly what you mean, even if your situation is far more frustrating. Don't worry about reviewing too much (which is not to say I don't want you to review!) I'm just too horrible a reviewer myself to be able to hold it against you. Second Chance will have the twins in it, I think. So will a few of the others (the one where Estel is about 18, for example) but I can't remember all the options well enough right now to tell you any clearer. I can figure out which ones have them in it if you'd like, though? I've gotten rather fond of them, too. They'll be in But Ada when I finally get it written. Um. We get back to the twins in Chapter 19; you'll find out how Elladan is then, first thing. Again, so sorry it took so long. Valar willing, the next one will be ready inside two weeks. 

**Lavender moonlight**: Thank you. I doubt this is your definition of soon, but I try. 

**Veritas and Aequitas**: "blushes" You're too kind. I'm glad it worked so well, and am immeasurably relieved you think so highly of that exchange. I had to write it differently than everything else so it wouldn't lose momentum. It's the part I was most worried about. "g" I'm glad you're glad and more besides. Plenty of torture coming up, psychological and otherwise, and angst to go with it! (Don't worry, we're all mean or we wouldn't have so much company!) How about we try 'soon' again and see if we have more success this time. What do you say? By the way, how did you come up with your name? 

**Nerfenherder**: LOL. Oh, I love those parts, too. Thank you, thank you. "gathers kind praise close and cuddles it" "giggles" Tickles. . . . Lol. Ai, I know they're all intriguing or I wouldn't be so keen to write all of them. "looks slightly frustrated" I may have to rethink this. Hm. . . "smiles" You take care, too. I need your reviews to make me smile. "giggles again" Every time I look at your penname, I see Han Solo and his expression just after Leia call him a nerf herder. "snorts" So sorry. 

**Grumpy**: Ah, I'm glad Abyl is to your liking. I even have more of Aragorn and Legolas fighting. What more is there for them to do? "eg" Yes, its now been proven that bad luck doesn't just follow Aragorn and Legolas around, if there was ever any doubt. "g" 

**DeepBlueSomething**: "bows deeply and beams" Thank you. And there's plenty of angst to go around, I think. Several times. Ah, yes, 'stressed' might actually be putting it mildly. Don't let them kill him? "blinks blankly" Why should I do that? Mm, well, maybe since you asked so nice and all. . . . I'll see what I can do. No promises, though. "g"


	19. Run or Hide

I have not died. A pity, I'm sure, but there it is. Try not to do anything . . . permanent. I enjoy all of my limbs rather much and need at least my hands to continue writing. So restrain yourselves, please. "g" 

Perfunctory announcements, and then I'll let you get on with it so you can pummel me as you see fit (after you read, of course): Dorolyn is a place created by Cassia and Sio; for some reason I can't remember the name of the story, but it's their's and all you need to know is evil men abused Legolas there. End of story. I'm not happy with this chapter, now that I've finished it. I think it could be better. At some point in the far distant future, I may go back and revise it, until then let me know what's bad so I can mark it down. After three months, I think this chapter will be rather disappointing. I need to stop this. 

Anyhoo. I have a way early New Years resolution: Never, ever, ever again will I write a chase scene involving horses in a city/town/village built on a grid. Never, ever. Period. I'm tired of it. I think if effects the chapter. 

Eep-- no more complaints from me. No more comments. Story to disassemble as you will. Feel free to tear it apart. tries not to smile too widely 

Enjoy. 

(p.s. if takes away any more little characters, I'm going to have to do something drastic. Grrrr.) 

****

**Chapter 19**

He watched as a pale light grew on the horizon, a sickly glow that nevertheless pushed steadily at the darkness until a clear beam lanced over the horizon. Inexorable, was the sun. It rose every day and fell every night, never effected by the motions of men, elves, or dwarves. It's motion was constant, predictable. It was welcomed by many. But not Torl. Not this day. 

A chill wind stirred the camp, whipping at canvas and whirling round warm bodies. It pulled at his cloak, snapped it back, but he did not notice. His thoughts were flung too far to notice much of anything, save that he was alone with no one near enough to trouble him. He had stood thus for much of the night. 

_"Begin the breaking at dawn."_

He had spent most of that time considering his lord's words. It was no strange thing for him to disagree with Shirk's decisions (though perhaps it should have been) as he could see other options which would achieve the same goal. Yet he had never before doubted the elf's wisdom. 

_"You are in charge of the prisoners."_

It disturbed him that he did so now. It disturbed him more that this first time should come when he had finally gained true position. 

_"I am leaving you in charge."_

It was unsettling that he should even consider going against his lord's wishes. It was preposterous! Absurd! 

_"Begin the breaking at dawn."_

_"Make sure Nirt does not kill them before the due time."_

It was his duty to follow the order's of his Master's chosen, his lord. It was his calling to follow his lord's orders to the victory he knew awaited them. If a plan failed, it was because of poor execution, not a failure of direction. 

Torl knew he should be heading to the elf's new prison to carry out his orders. He knew Nirt would be there, for she was to conduct the questioning-- he had informed her himself; knew that she would become impatient quickly and report his tardiness to Shirk. He knew. And yet he could not move. The weight of his knowledge hung heavy on him: if he questioned him as instructed, the elf would die. 

His concern sounded so altruistic when articulated in his mind! The elf would die. But that was not the base of his concerns, the reason he stood trembling on a cold ledge when time had come to answer his lord's directive. It was not so selfless a cause that held him fast to unfeeling stone. 

It was his own fate which bound him. 

Too long had he been a Slyntari; too long had he tread paths of danger; too many had he seen die not to know what fate awaited him at his failure. To him, were the prisoners charged; from him, did they escape. One mistake could be forgiven. But two. . . . From two, there was no recovery. 

He knew: if the son of Elrond died, so would he. 

He breathed deep and let it out. The fresh mountain air bit his lungs, reminding him of the cold. He shuddered convulsively as he stirred from his long watch. His limbs were stiff, almost as if the cold night had tried to freeze them in place. He shifted and shook out his arms, hoping to relieve the sensation, and glanced to the horizon. 

The sun slashed his eyes. He drew back quickly, squinting against the assault, and turned his back on the rising sun. With nary a trace of indecision, he strode back through the camp towards the door that would lead to his destiny, his stride quick and sure, for he knew something else as well. 

If he did not question the elf, he would die. Presented with the option, he could do nothing less than take his enemy with him to his doom. 

()()()()() 

Torl barely spared a glance for Nirt and her companions as he strode to the slanted, cellar-like door that secured the elf within his new cell. He nodded curtly to the guards stationed on either side and they pulled the door open just in time for him to step through, his pace unhindered, his image still whole. 

The dark, tunneled stairway echoed the even sounds of his descent before they became jumbled amid additional reports of varied strides less measured than his own. He need not have heard them to know they were there, but he took advantage of their chaotic descent to steady his own. These steps were nowhere near as steep as the last set he had had to traverse to visit this elf but compensated by being far longer. There were more of them to reach the end, and the only light to illuminate them in the narrow passage was the feeble glow of a single torch set inside the cell itself. That rectangle of light at the bottom was a beacon, a lone source of comfort in the darkness. A test for the faithful. 

He clenched his teeth as he emerged into the stark pen and quickly cast his eyes about the block, locating the elf quickly. The lithe being looked even worse than he had scant hours before. Already pale skin had acquired a grayish hue that reacted with the firelight to turn him into a corpse, and the half-opened glazed eyes that stared unfocused and unblinking did nothing to gainsay that impression. His head lolled sickly from side to side with every movement involved in securing him to a chair. Were it not for the almost negligible rise and fall of his chest, Torl would have sworn the other was already dead. 

A young man (Tin, he thought) looked up from his task as the Slyntari captain gained the floor, then turned back to his task securing the elf's arm. Gray eyes flitted over the youth before settling on the only other being in the room. Tamis, a young man with curly blonde hair and sky blue eyes, did not so much as twitch. His attention stayed focused on the light bandage that wrapped the elf's middle, tugging it this way and that to no discernible purpose. Nirt and her chosen shifted impatiently behind Torl, but he gave them no more notice than the healer gave him. 

Only after Tin had finished did Tamis appear satisfied. He smoothed his fingers over the white cloth, barely cupped the elf's chin-- an abortive move at tilting the elf's head-- then lightly rapped the being's knee and stood. A smile split the young one's face looking two seconds from bouncing up and down like a five-year-old clamoring for birthday presents. He failed to school his expression into something suitably solemn but managed to keep his feet planted to the ground as he bowed his head and greeted, "My lord." 

Torl kept his expression impassive as he inclined his own head in brief acknowledgment. "Report," he ordered dispassionately. 

The youth seemed to waver somewhere between excitement and unease, his body swaying with the conflict before his enthusiasm won out. It was the tone and not the content that gave the victory away, and the captain was suddenly reminded of something Kelt had said a couple years ago: _He learns quick, that one; a natural if ever I saw one, but healing was never his calling, never should have been. He's one that would hurt an animal to see the color of its blood, or pull at a wound to see what lays with the bone underneath rather than heal it. It's little wonder Akin couldn't stand him; he's no professional pride, none at all._ It wasn't a comforting memory. 

"He regained consciousness briefly when he was brought in but wasn't cognizant of his surroundings and hasn't woken since. Three more ribs broke in his fall, as well as his collarbone and his wrist. His right hip sports severe bruising-- unknown if it covers a break, and his leg fractured below the knee. Wrenched his ankle, too, swelling there." Torl could just imagine the other twisting the appendage during his ministrations as the boy rocked back and forth on his heels as he glanced at the still elf. "Um, concussion. His pupils dilate unevenly. He's a nasty bump on the back of his head, but his skull appears to be intact, mostly, so he shouldn't die 'cause of that, least ways not right away." 

"And his original injury?" 

Tamis chuckled. "I'd've never believed it, but the stitches held. Couple of 'em pulled free, but the wound's still closed. Was bleeding a bit so I bandaged it. Bloody lucky, that one. I woulda thought the fall would've kill him." Regret was what the Slyntari captain heard, but regret of what he could not determine. That the elf had lived? That his stitches had not broken? 

"If he were truly lucky, it would have," Torl replied evenly. "Now he gets to suffer his body's betrayal." He pulled the vial he had chosen from his belt and held it out to the healer. "Dose him," he ordered. 

Wounds enough decorated the slender form, but Torl did not object when Tamis produced a knife and sliced a new line across pale flesh, drawing blood only to press a cloth to it and hide the blemish from view. He half expected the elf would stir in reaction to the liquid that suddenly rushed through his veins, but his breathing remained the same and his eyes never twitched. If he somehow knew what awaited him, he did not show it. 

"Shall I wake him, my lord?" Tamis inquired when he turned back to them, knife gone and vial capped. 

He suspected the boy would relish the activity, and he saw no reason to indulge the boy. "No," he answered. "Dismissed." 

Both healer and guard bowed, then filed past him and up the stairs. Torl accepted the vial back as they passed and tucked it back into his tunic. The Slyntari held still as they listened to the young ones' progress, echoing steps punctuated by the doors closing drifted down to them. Silence began to replaced the lazy cacophony, then two distinct thumps echoed down. 

Torl nodded. "Wake him," he ordered as the locks being reset clanged through the darkness to them. Nirt obeyed without a sound and her helpers followed her forward. He watched the woman a moment before taking a seat in the far corner near the entrance, in a chair similar to the one whose occupant he watched. His eyes narrowed as he studied their ministrations, not so much trying to determine what they were doing as how successful their efforts were. 

_His body will betray him twice before the end,_ he decided. "Oh, Nirt dearest," he called sweetly. The elf groaned blearily, pulled from the oblivion of sleep into more pain than he could imagine. "Do only use the whips to encourage him." 

()()()()() 

He did not know what he had expected, but he had not expected this-- to ride out and come face-to-face with men they had to both avoid and follow. He did not even know he had expectations, but he was still surprised, and yet . . . not. 

On a whole, they looked no different than any man he had ever met. They were better dressed than some, worse dressed than others but certainly not orcs. They had dark hair and wore it long in the style of men with full beards neatly trimmed. Their horses were of fine breed, their bridles and saddles well-made, and their swords-- while used-- were well-kept. Legolas knew (the same way he knew these were the South Men) that these men could pass down any street in any city without drawing a second glance. 

And yet, there was a darkness surrounding them that baffled the elf prince how it was possible that there were those who could not see it. It was a presence, a shadow that seemed to churn and distort light. His stomach churned as he recognized in them the same shadow he had encountered in the men at Dorolyn, the same menace. 

For a moment, he did not move. He stood alone before six of his enemy arrayed on horseback, themselves just as still, just as surprised. It did not last long. 

Legolas turned Ardevui in the opposite direction just as the first of the men charged. He could hear the others following suit, gaining rapidly while he was forced to change directions. His heart quickened and his blood boiled with the desire to face his enemies, but he held to his decision and urged Ardevui into a gallop as soon as she was oriented in the right direction. 

Under different circumstances, he would not have hesitated to engage them, but his duty now was to aid Aragorn in finding his brothers and heedlessly attacking six superiorly armed men when he did not have to was counterproductive to his cause. He wished he had his bow. He would settle for his knives. 

He neared the corner of the street and aimed Ardevui just past the edge, hoping to skim the building and make a sharper turn without slowing down. He felt the wood clip his knee and elbow, then he was riding north with all speed only to pull Ardevui abruptly down another road. He took this one just as fast as the others and counted off seconds in his head, trying to judge when his pursuit would make the turn to find him. It was difficult, for he had no way of knowing how fast they could ride and he wanted to make sure he was as far from them as possible before turning. 

He had forgotten how long the streets were. 

The seconds stretched long in his head, increasing his tension moment after endless moment until, finally, he deemed it was time. They were nearly to the corner. He needed to turn. Houses blocked him on either side. 

Shouts whipped his head around to find he had been spotted and the men were turning to follow him. He turned forward, not even wasting the breath to curse. No suitable words sprang to mind anyway. His keen eyes darted up the road, finding the next intersection. He directed Ardevui toward it, angling south, and crouched low on her back as he urged her to jump the porch railing. Her front hooves pounded the wood planking, followed quickly by the second; then she was hesitating, gathering her strength-- 

She sailed over the low rail and landed sure-footed, sending up a shower of dirt and once again increased her pace. He hung on with his knees pressed tight into her sides and guided her as best he could. 

A square town with grid streets that connected one to another, each eventually leading where one wanted to go if one followed them long enough, was hardly an ideal place for a chase. It had its advantages and disadvantages-- for both sides, but was (in this case) to his enemy's advantage by simple virtue of numbers. One on one, they could chase each other down side streets forever, weaving in and out of big roads and small roads, never able to catch the other until the world ended or foolishness tilted favor. 

But such was not the case. What he faced was two sworn, numerically superior enemies with better working knowledge of their terrain and no knowledge of how they would react towards one another in regards to him. He gained no advantage over them by being on a horse and actually suffered on maneuverability; he was under-armed and could not operate to his full advantage because he could never leave without Aragorn. That meant he had to stay, and if his enemies knew that, they could eventually use their numbers to box him in. If that happened, the only thing he could do was fight them or take to his feet . . . and he was loathe to do either. 

Skipping two intersections took him a third of the way to Caivern's center, and two more passed before he decided to turn. He thought he heard them turn the far corner, but the increased shouts and stamping hooves combined with distance and obstructions made it nearly impossible to be certain. 

No matter. He had no need of them to follow him, just for there to be space between him and them. He needed time. 

Ardevui panted as she raced for the distance, not sure where she was going but aware she had to get there quickly. Her body quivered ever so slightly beneath him. Fatigue pulled at her muscles. Running cross-country with the minimum of stops to see to the health of horse and rider, her longest break had come more than a month before when Aragorn fell in the river, and even that was easier than what he demanded now. 

Holding a steady-- or fairly steady-- speed for long distances was incomparably easier on a horse than rapid acceleration and deceleration, and gradual turns far less stressful than sharp ones. Even doing his best to minimize that strain could not erase it, and jumps were not much better. His course amounted to a draining, highly stressful race-- one he could not in good conscious ask her to continue long, one she could not continue long even if she would. They would have to leave soon, or Ardevui would not have the strength to bear them far with any speed. 

The next intersection closed upon him with the speed of a charging bull, away one instant and upon him the next, with the seconds stretched long in between. Too fast and too slow, he felt the constraints of time more keenly than he could ever remember having felt them before. 

He slowed Ardevui's mad dash with a touch to her neck. The sides of the buildings were solid here, and the intersection too small to repeat his earlier move at speed. The mare obeyed quickly, and obligingly drifted left as he directed. She reached the corner at just over a quick trot and took a right down this new street. The shouts were louder now, no longer so distant, though little had changed. It was almost as if he had stepped from one room into another but still had not found where the conversation he glimpsed originated. It gladdened his heart to know he might finally be getting close. 

A glance to the side showed part of the group had broken off and were now paralleling him along the other street. That limited his choice of directions, but he no longer had to worry about them. Unless they rejoined the group following behind him, he would see them long before they could harm him. 

_Unless they conjure bows._

Legolas pushed that thought away. He had more important things to do than worry about a future that might not even come to pass. Like surviving to get to it in the first place. 

Another glance showed the men still pacing him. Once he passed the edge of the building, he pulled Ardevui to a halt. Counting out just enough time for the others to have passed by, he urged his steed forward again. There was no sign of the men as he passed the lane, and they did not reappear as he arrived at the second. Twisting, he just glimpsed his pursuers turning onto his street before he turned onto the new one, once again headed east. 

Front doors flashed past quickly, and if anyone looked out their windows, he did not take the time to see. Wind rushed past his ears, whipping like canvas in a storm, and blocked sound. The growing presence he had heard faded, and with it his awareness of what was happening around him. It was uncomfortably like being blind, and the elf prince resisted the urge to slow down so he could hear. He could not afford to slow down. 

The next intersection flew at him as if on wings, and he almost did not slow Ardevui enough to make the turn. They burst into the open with too much speed and not enough attention to their surroundings, trying as he was to shift in order to give Ardevui the best chances of making the turn. An arrow shot past inches from his ear, startling him into shifting backwards. Ardevui started forward. 

"Shoot!" he cursed breathlessly, scrambling to catch hold of something to keep him from falling. His eyes widened as he realized what he had said, what had happened, and what was likely to be done. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" he amended quickly, managing to catch Ardevui's mane with his fingers and regain his seat. For a moment, he inanely thought he felt like a human, terribly clumsy and unaware, and wondered how Aragorn could stand it. 

Legolas shook his head sharply. "I have been spending too much time with Strider," he told Ardevui mournfully. The mare just snorted. _She probably thinks I should have know that already._

__

_Or should be paying attention!_ he added as two more arrows streaked past his head. Then houses appeared on two sides, and he knew Ardevui had carried him past the intersection onto the continuation of their street and out of harm's way. But that hardly made them safe. 

He bid her stop, and she turned towards the intersection, facing one of the houses but swiveling her ears to find out what was going on. Legolas listened, too, and what he heard failed to elicit a reaction from him either way. 

"Hey! That was the Elf!" 

"Yeah, but where's Ranger?" 

"Who cares? We'll find him soon enough." 

"Think he'll come if we catch the Elf?" 

He was too busy considering his next move to truly give their conversation any thought. More important was the fact that they were coming closer and he was quickly running out of time to make a decision. It was rapidly becoming an academic question of whether it was to be the South Men or the villagers that caught him first. He could continue running, but if there was a similar group at the next intersection, he would accomplish nothing save to box himself in. And the pair behind him would get him in their sights long before he could reach the next intersection; their bows made that a tricky and possibly useless venture. 

Neither, though, could he stay where he was. Even if he could take out the villagers with just his dagger, that still left the six creeps to deal with; and he had every reason to expect they were back together, ruling out the hope that he could deal with them three at a time. Six on one was no better an option now than when he had encountered them halfway across the city. Unless. . . . 

The villagers were armed. Both had bows from what he remembered and at least one carried a sword. If he could take them out quickly, he would gain a bow and another more suitable weapon than his lone dagger for close combat. That would even the odds and give him a fighting chance. 

The elf prince slid from Ardevui's back before he could give himself a chance to reconsider. Reconsideration could breed doubts, doubts would spawn hesitation, and hesitation would get him killed. He stroked Ardevui's neck and whispered for her to hide before moving forward and away, sliding silently to a position a few feet back from the intersection on the side the villagers had to come from. He pulled his dagger and listened closely as they approached, tensing as they pulled nearly abreast of his location. 

He felt he should have foreseen what happened next. 

Alarmed shouts told him something had gone wrong. Then arrows flew past towards targets he could not see, and it occurred to him that the South Men had arrived. Hooves thundered, throbbed between the buildings (far louder than what was made by just six horses, no matter how hard one rode) and arrows crossed back towards the villagers. More than a dozen to answer the people's four. It occurred to him as he backed up that he may have just made a fatal mistake. 

Then he turned and ran. 

()()()()() 

He stumbled to a halt upon the zenith of the shallowest inclines of the smallest pseudo hill and stared out at the skeleton trees, dead bushes, and rocky soil like a thirsty man who has toiled long to reach his destination only to discover he was wrong, and what he thought was the end was really the beginning, desert stretching to the endless horizon before him. Elrohir sighed. 

He had only been traveling an hour, but he could not remember ever feeling so tired. His arms and legs felt like lead, carrying all the weight of the ages, and he could barely imagine moving one more step, never mind another mile. And mile upon mile yet separated him from his brother, far more than he had imagined when he set out; it was with a sinking pang that he realized how long he must have been out of it to have no knowledge of coming this far. 

_If I had not given into despair, it would not be taking me so long to reach Elladan_. He staggered, almost falling as he took a step forward, and it was hard to tell if the sudden weakness of his legs was from the guilt or the fatigue. His next step was not any better. 

He stepped out and brought his foot down without incident, and even found the strength to lift his back foot and continue on-- but his upper body had a mind to continue faster. He felt himself rock forward, tipping past balance in that endless, floating moment before you fall, where your stomach tightens and a thrill runs up your spine. His eyes widened as the ground began to rock towards him, and his mind screamed _Move! move, move, move, move, move!_ But his body did not seem to respond. Not as he wanted, and not as fast as he needed. 

His upper body continued at a run while his lower body continued at a walk, his legs tripping after like a child trying to keep up with a rushing adult, and he was surprised when his arms slipped around a tree, his right arm hooking it before he could trip over it and sprawl face first at its base. 

The younger twin rocked back and, still keeping a firm grip upon the papery trunk, managed to stand upright. His head swam ever so slightly, giving the impression that he was floating instead of standing and not completely connected. He clenched his eyes shut, some little voice whispering in his head that if he did it harder it would accomplish more, and opened his eyes seconds later to find that the world seemed solid once more. Bracing himself with a deep breath, he shifted his grip so he only pressed his hand against the trunk, then started forward, watching the ground for any trickery. 

Nothing out of the ordinary appeared, and he continued on five, six, seven . . . only to see the ground _slip_ left. He wavered, trying to balance as his feet went one way, his head the other, and some soft, insidious voice kept whispering he was going to fall, he was going to fall. . . . 

He was going to fall. 

"I am not going to fall," he said irritably, and was not entirely sure if it was himself he was trying to convince, that little voice inside his head that was being contrary, or the Valar who were surely laughing at him by now. In the end, it did not matter. 

Elrohir reclaimed his balance, unconsciously holding out his arms and twisting them like he was holding on to people walking beside him, and continued walking. The dirt, dry and rocky, crunched and shifted under his feet, little drops that would have meant nothing under normal circumstances. Now, though, they disturbed his already precarious balance. He made it perhaps ten steps before he was once again swerving into a tree. 

A _crack_ resounded at impact, and he held it tightly with both hands, some part of him thinking he could hold it together while another feared it would vanish all-together if he let go. He clung to its cool solidity with his eyes clenched shut while the world about him swirled and sloshed and he tried to slow his heartbeat, which was racing from his close call. Actually, it had been racing before that, a slightly too fast rhythm that felt strange within his sluggish body. But this-- this was too fast. 

He took a deep breath and felt it turn shaky. He had not felt this bad since that drinking contest on Estel's twenty-first birthday. As if conjured by the memory, his head began to throb distantly. _What did they give me?_ he thought. _What did they_ do_ to me?_

The last weeks scrolled across his mind's eye like a horrible play, reminding him of the forced travel, the harsh treatment, the poor care. It occurred to him that on top of being drugged, he could not remember the last time he had eaten, nor if he had had any of the water he had given his twin before they left, before everything that had not already gone wrong went straight to hell. He could not remember, but what he did suggested he had every right to feel this horrible, and that was not a comforting thought. He wondered how much longer he would be able to stay on his feet. 

_Until I rescue my brother_, he thought. _I just need to stay standing until I rescue my brother._

_"The only thing you will accomplish is to suffer beside him; suffer and die!"_

"No, I won't!" he denied. _I'll save him. I have to._

His head throbbed, pounding between his eyes and at the base of his skull, prying persistently at his thoughts and cocooning them away from him. His mind spun, helplessly active, but with no focus or purpose, no clarity. Planning was beyond him, and he was surprised to realize he had started walking again, staggering across the rocky soil with less than his usual grace. 

He could see trees, tall and thin, their skins pale gray and paper dry; their spindly limbs reached for the sky like bony fingers raised in supplication, the trunks tortured spirits locked forever in endless death. They pinwheeled before his eyes-- sometimes faster, something slower-- and grew within his sight. Blackened bushes like dead, tangled vines, hugged their bases and changed the lines, made them different, marked their passage. Always, it seemed he would fall, but always he found his balance (or his balance found him) and the trees continued to dance. Here and there, there and here. . . . 

He could almost imagine they were spirits, floating . . . but the ground that was solid under his feet was solid around theirs. He glanced to the side, instinct and long habit of watchfulness taking over-- and started back, tripping over his own feet in surprise. 

His feet did not move fast enough. He needed to get away-- 

The dark-haired elf felt the tree before he saw it, saw it before he understood what it was, and heard the loud crack, ominous in the unnatural silence, that heralded a falling tree magnified many times as it rang in his ears. He froze, not even daring to breathe, feeling he had just stepped on the largest twig in the world, and now he was bound to be found. 

Elrohir waited apprehensively, his eyes the only things that moved. Inexplicably, he felt like an elfling, like he had just been caught roughhousing with his brother, a broken vase scattered about their feet. For half a moment, he fully expected to glance up and see his father frowning at him sternly, a lecture on his lips. 

But when silence returned, the last echoes falling away, he heard no one closing in and Lord Elrond's voice did not command it; he looked up. Blue eyes scanned deadened woodland before him and found everything as it had been, no shadow out of place. 

Of their own volition, his eyes tracked back across the forest path, seeking out what had startled him so. A dark stump, knarled and twisted, rising nearly equal with his head, stood where the shadowed form had been. It was a different species than the other trees. Its bark was rougher, darker, and the trunk was thicker. Instead of drying out, though, it had rotted. Bits of itself lay scattered at its feet. With a bit of imagination, it could have been a man. 

He sneered at it in disgust. Whether it was himself he was most disgusted at or someone else, he could not say. His thoughts were not so clear as to allow such insight, but he could easily tell he was dissatisfied. A sneaking fear, like the covert slithering of a snake, wormed its way into his thoughts and dropped into his stomach like a knot of ice. 

_I could've been dead_, he thought faintly. _Had that been the enemy, I would have been dead._ Sobering, but there was little he could do. 

Time ticked away like a vice, every second bringing the two clamps closer together until, eventually, they would crush him between their merciless embrace. He could feel the weight of his brother's-- his _twin's_-- life hanging down on him, crushing him. Sometimes it consumed him, claimed him, other times it waited, lurking, just out of reach but always there, always harbored in the back of his mind like an annoying itch. 

He could not forget Elladan's life hung on his shoulders. He could not forget what his failure would cost. He did not want to. 

_Nana paid for my mistake. It cannot happen again. For Ada, for Estel, for Elladan . . . for me. It cannot happen again. I cannot let him pay for my mistakes. I could not bear it._

Elrohir took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not realize he had closed his eyes until he opened them. The lids felt incredibly heavy, sticky almost, and his head just as fuzzy, but the pain had faded-- a dull buzzing that merged with his floating thoughts-- and the world seemed firmly in its place once more. 

Brushing aside his concern, that nagging feeling that something was wrong, he ran. Again. 

()()()()() 

It was impossible to say when he noticed it-- when the world shifted from "normal" to "off." He was not even sure what triggered it, what had told him that things once right were now wrong. It was just something he became aware of, like the tickle of a feather against his skin. 

It was not his headache, now a full-blown monster pounding at the confines of his skull. It was not the floating quality that had come into his vision, the way the ground would drift just a little too far that way. It was not the shivery feeling in his legs, nor the fluttery galloping of his heart. It was nothing tangibly wrong, nothing he could definitely put his finger on, but it was there just the same, and he knew it. He could feel it, tickling at the edges of his awareness, unidentifiable. 

Gradually, he slowed, his feet unwillingly coming to a half amid the crunch of gravel. He looked around warily, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. It was a momentary distraction to touch the haft and find it different than the one he remembered, but he instinctively pushed it away in favor of more immediate concerns . . . the menace just out of reach. . . . 

Everything was still. Quiet. The wind, which had ghosted through the empty boughs all morning, had ceased, leaving the air charged with a kind of breathless expectancy. He listened, straining his ears, stretching, trying to catch just a hint. . . . 

He moved in the same instant he was attacked, deftly turning away from the blow and rolling out of harm's way. He came up, his sword drawn, and saw the man check his momentum quickly and turn once more to face him. 

His blood burned hotly in his veins, eager for this fight, eager to be able to _do_ something other than just wait. The barest hint of a feral smile hovered over his lips as he flowed forward, bringing the sword up and around to connect solidly with tempered steel. The blades locked. For the briefest moment, their gazes met and Elrohir saw the same anticipation he felt in his gut. 

Then they broke and the dance began. Steel rang sharply, almost jarring, nearly musical. His hands moved seemingly of the own volition, up, down, strike, jab, block, sweep, forcing the other back, down, maneuvering him with the ease of a child pulling a wagon, his blows clean and graceful, a testament to his skill. The battle would not last long. 

But uneasiness had begun to grow within him, a quiet doubt beyond words that required no expression. It whispered just as eloquently that something was wrong as the niggle in the back of his mind that had warned him of attack. 

Long had Elrohir been a warrior. Many centuries had passed and he had fought countless enemies in that time in nearly as many locales as there were to be had upon Middle-earth, both well-rested and tired, hale and injured. He had come to know the arc of his swing, the power of his strike, the quickness of his step, the limit of his stamina, the_ feel_, the rhythm, and knew when it had faltered. 

A quiet little fear, the kind that noted faults even when nothing had gone wrong, pointed out the slowing of his step. He was overly aware of the weight of the blade, heavier than his own, though he had fought with many blades over the years. He felt the different balance, how it pulled further before he could halt his swing, how it took just a little bit more effort to start it moving, to change its flow. He felt how his arms shivered, and how the weight wanted to pull him forward, off-balance; and he knew his style would become awkward the more he tired, knew he would make careless mistakes. 

He could feel it already. He needed a wider stance. His feet were too far apart. His hands were too far forward. Too high. He was leaning too much, his weight no longer balanced over his feet. He needed to end this. Quickly. 

The younger twin stepped up his attack, forcing his arms to swing faster, his blows to fall harder, his strikes shorter, surer. He drove the man before him, the other's counter swings nearly frantic as he tried to stem the tide of the elf's assault. Brown eyes darted around for an escape he would not grant. Satisfaction, relief, flowed through him when the man's sword flew from his hand and his feet dumped him to the floor. Elrohir approached the prone form with sword held high ready to end the foul creature's life-- 

The stroke never fell. 

Before he could complete the strike, he whirled, barely catching the sword edge that had been heading for his throat. The blades slid as the opponents fought for dominance, then he stepped forward and pushed the other's blade to the ground. It sang as it hit rock, and Elrohir pulled a page from Estel's book, removing his outside hand from the hilt and smashed his fist back across his attacker's face. He felt something give and the man stumbled back, losing his grip on his sword. 

By this time, he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that he was not alone, and got a brief view of three beings who had come to join the first two and was blocking a third sword before he could finish what he started with the second. 

Movement from the corner of his eye warned him the first had regained his sword and his feet and intended to use them. He retreated, dancing away from his opponent and placing four of the five on one side of him. The third followed the move, keeping up the friction between their blades and filling the air with the scratchy ring of metal. The fifth moved as he set his feet, coming against his back, and he broke away. He spun past the blow and tried to deliver one of his own, but the other spun away. 

For an instant, he had all five in view. Four were men, all with builds similar to Estel's, three had dark hair, two with black instead of dark brown, and the fourth was an ashy blonde with soot smeared on it in an effort to darken the color. One of the black-haired men had green eyes. They all moved before he had even set his feet, shifting around to get behind him. The only one who did not move was the woman. 

Bright red flashed with green and for a heartbeat he feared it was Nirt, reflexive panic trying to claim him before he realized this one was inches too short and of a heavier build; stocky instead of whipcord thin, but the same manic light burned in her eyes. She enjoyed this. 

He pushed those thoughts away in favor of concentrating on the fight. He needed to plan so he could act instead of simply reacting, lead instead of following, guide instead of finding himself maneuvered into a trap he could not see coming and had no way to escape. For that he needed time and, desperately, he needed out of the noose they had caught him within. 

The clash of swords rang in his ears as he ably defended himself from their assault, twisting quickly to stave off everything they threw at him, but he dare not keep it up for long. He could not keep it up for long. He would wear down long before they did; he was the one who had to do all the moving while they darted forward enough to force him to engage them or risk the noose tightening till resistance was impossible. 

He tried charging a gap, but the space always closed, the defense too close for a quick break, and he was always forced to defend himself on another quarter before he could truly attempt to batter his way through. He tried charging a person, but the other always gave ground, and someone behind him would come up and force him to turn and face them before he could truly challenge the other. Then the game would begin all over. 

He wished he was fighting orcs instead of men. Orcs could be taken out with a single blow, surprised with quick movements, but these opponents were too cautious. Used to working together, they had obviously been warned to be on their guard and seemed perfectly willing to let him collapse from exhaustion. He could not help but think this group was smarter than the ones who came after them last night. 

_Why couldn't they wait until I had rescued Elladan to grow a brain?_

He parried high, then spun and blocked low, came back nearly a hundred eighty degrees to check a waist-high sweep, then almost went left instead of continuing right to catch the next threat. The brief hesitation threw him off, and he stumbled as he met the blow, not quite set. He could not move quickly enough to meet the next strike form behind, so he rolled instead. 

The ground bit at his back, and a sword came at him before he made it back to his feet. Only half-standing, he blocked the blow and was knocked onto his back. Panic seized him. He needed to be on his feet! The longer he remained on the ground, the more vulnerable he became. 

He had known better than to go down. He had known if he let himself be forced to the floor, it was possible he would never get back up. He kicked himself even as he feverishly defended against the blows that rained down on him, struggling to force an opening so he could regain his feet. But even as he fought, he knew it was a lost cause. 

His arms ached with the effort of swinging the sword, ached from the heavy vibrations that traveled to his shoulders with every clash of steel on steel. His chest throbbed. His lungs burned. His heart was racing far too fast and pain was consuming his thoughts. His sight was beginning to dim around the edges, spots flashing before his eyes. It was just a matter of time before a blow got through. Then the battle would over. 

_I'm sorry, brother!_ he cried silently, seeing his doom. A sword he would never be in time to block descended towards his head. 

He tried anyway, bringing his sword up as a kind of shield. His eyes widened and his heart stopped. Then the blade dug into the earth just past his head. He jumped as the man collapsed atop him, stiffening instinctively, and held perfectly still beneath the other's weight. He waited for the dark-haired man to get up, but he never moved. 

Weapons clashing nearby pulled him from his stupor and he looked up into wide, surprised green eyes that no longer viewed the world they looked upon. 

Elrohir got his hands up, dropping his sword where it was pinned between them, and pushed determinedly at the man's right shoulder. The other rolled partially off and he dragged himself out from under the dead weight, a quick glance around showing he was, for the moment, unnoticed. 

He pulled his sword from the man's body and jumped to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, fighting the dizziness that washed over him and trying not to give into the darkness that was coming for him. It dissipated, and his gaze fell on the only other being near him. 

It was the blond. Also dead. A dagger hilt was buried in his back at the base of his neck, forced between two vertebrate. A glimpse at the other showed a similarly clean strike had ended his life as well, this time through the heart. He blinked but left them where they lay. There was something far more important that demanded his attention now. 

The four remaining living beings formed a cluster about a dozen feet from his position, his rescuer skillfully holding his own against three to one odds. But it was not going to stay that way. 

Elrohir moved forward quickly and came up behind one of the men. Without a moment's hesitation he brought up his sword and loped the other's head off. The body fell, alerting the woman beside him and she quickly turned to face him, but it was not quick enough. His sword struck hers before it could pass her waist, forcing it back down. A quick reverse sliced deeply into her chest and pain choked her breath. She stumbled backwards, green eyes wide and fearful. She was staring at him when he drove his sword through her heart. 

He turned in time to see the last opponent fall, and froze. His blue eyes fixed on his "rescuer." He did not know if he should feel shocked, triumphant, or angry, so he settled for staring blankly, feeling like a hole had opened up in his stomach and did his best to feel nothing. 

"Nirt's not going to be happy." 

It took him a moment to realize the inane words came from the girl standing casually before him as if she saved the lives of people who told her to go to hell everyday. "What?" he managed. 

"Nirt," Sierra repeated. "She's not going to happy." 

He blinked, bemused. 

"You killed her sister: Nirauna." The lithe brunette gestured carelessly at the redhead staring blankly at the sky. 

He did not bother to glance at her. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of the only other living occupant within sight. 

The other's bright eyes scanned their surroundings as if he had not spoken. "We need to go," she answered instead. She took his arm before he could protest and started pulling him in a direction he could not readily identify. 

"What are you doing?" His head was spinning, pounding. He would never have admitted it, but her hand clamped just above his elbow was the only thing holding him up. His vision blurred as they walked quickly through the trees, and it was several minutes before he realized she had not answered him. He tried again: "What are you doing?" 

"We're going to find a somewhat safe place to camp for a few hours," she replied, an odd, distracted note in her voice. 

Frustration washed over him. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me," he charged angrily. 

"No," she interrupted. "_You're_ deliberately misunderstanding _me_." 

He frowned at her, but did not answer. His head was hurting too badly to support such considerations and it took too much energy to argue. Instead, he turned his attention to figuring out which way she was taking him this time. He was not really mollified to discover they were heading south. His brother was not in the south, but he was not particularly sure he could speak coherently just now so he did not even try. At least they were not going east. 

Minutes melted together into an indistinguishable blur as they walked, and the sun was well into the sky by the time Sierra indicated a stop. Elrohir's tongue felt thick and his throat felt scratchy and he sank to the ground when he was released, leaning wearily against a stone outcropping that provided some shade from the sun. 

He lost sight of the girl as she continued on without him, and his thoughts turned to that moment when he was sure he was going to die. He felt again the little rocks beneath his back, digging and scratching, the hilt in his palm; saw the blade poised above him ready to descend. He tired to think if there was anything he could have done, any way he could have saved himself, and could think of nothing. 

He was left with his despair in the moment of his defeat. _I'm sorry, brother!_ He closed his eyes. 

Something was dropped in his hands, and he clutched it reflexively, his eyes flying open. It took a moment, but he eventually resolved the brown blob in his hands into a water skin, and he drank from it gratefully. It felt cool going down his throat and by the time he was done, his headache had eased. 

He looked around and watched a moment as the girl played with something on the ground. It felt good to be sitting still, and he let his curiosity hold him in place while he tried to figure out what she was doing. He was no closer several minutes later and deemed it was time to go after his brother again. He began working his way to his feet. 

Sierra's head came up immediately. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded sharply. 

He bristled at her tone. "To save my brother," he answered shortly. He thought crossly that he need not have answered her at all. 

"You're not doing any such thing." She was on her feet before him before he could take a single step. 

He glared, aggravated. "We've already done this, wench," he growled. "Don't interfere. This doesn't concern you." 

Anger flashed across her face, momentarily distorting it into a sneer, then blanked and her jaw set. "You're going to sleep." 

"I'm _going_ to save my brother!" He stepped, but she blocked him. 

"You couldn't get past me if you tried," she countered, her voice low. "One way or another, you're going to sleep, Elrohir. By your choice or mine, you're going to sleep, and you're going to sleep now." 

_Of all the arrogance!_ He reached out to shove her aside so he could get past, but she grabbed his arm and pulled, taking him forward faster than he had intended. He stumbled and felt her arm wrap around his neck before he could react. Her other arm pressed his head forward. He struggled against the hold, but he was too tired to break it; and before he could stop himself, he slid into darkness. 

()()()()() 

The surprise of him jumping off a roof to land on their ringleader's horse did not last long. Neither was he long a solitary rider through the endless streets. In this land of the horselords, it seemed everyone who was anyone owned a horse. 

Aragorn chanced a glance behind him and wished for the dozenth time that the villagers' general ineptitude in combat had extended to horsemanship. At least a dozen men were close behind him as he raced, heedless of traffic or obstruction, down the village streets. It was a little less than half the number that had hounded him originally, but he knew better than to feel relief. He had not lost them, merely not found them yet. 

It was a dying hope that he would not find them for a long, long time. 

_I'm in trouble_, he thought, nearly frantically, a decidedly late realization. Plans were a luxury he had no time for, and he had long ago resorted to making random turns in the hopes of losing his pursuers. His thought was that taking a lot of turns to go nowhere would confuse them and they would lose his trail; he need not see the group behind him to know he had failed. 

_Or rather_, he amended dryly, _succeeded with the wrong subject._ He, Ranger and Chieftain of the North, was decidely lost. 

He look a turn-- too fast-- and could not tell if he was going north or south (though he might have been going east or west-- he could not remember which faced the houses). And he did not have time to check. Direction was not really important anyway. His hair whipped back form his face and the cold morning air stung at his eyes. He searched desperately for somewhere to go, somewhere-- some_thing_ to give him inspiration. 

A flash of black-- a moment of emptiness amid constant color-- caught his eye, and he turned the mare towards it before he even realized what it was. The darkness washed over him like ice water, and he tensed. He could not help but remember his last plunge through an unlit stable; the bruises on his legs throbbed with the memory. He hoped there were no surprises lurking in the shadow for him to discover the hard way. 

Seconds passed, and he reined his horse to a halt just as the other riders reached the stable. Turning to face the entrance, he watched the men streak past, praying no one would think to look his way or-- looking-- would fail to see him. He held himself as still as a statue, poised on a razor-blade of anticipation. 

An age seemed to pass while they streaked by, but when empty street was once more before him, he remained unnoticed. The ranger released a breath he had not realized he held, and patted the steed's neck gently, comforting. 

A sigh escaped him. "When my father told me I'd face great trials as I grew older, wars and thankless tasks-- he somehow failed to prepare me for days like this." _Weeks_ like this. 

The mare snorted. A small smile eased his countenance briefly and he restarted her on an easier pace for the far end. The relative quiet, after so much commotion, tempted him to relax, and much of the tension that had plagued him melted from his shoulders. It was a feeling that contrasted sharply-- jarringly-- with the knowledge that he was far from safe and definitely still in grave danger. 

His eyes darted around the entryway for hints of trouble as a jittery unease stole back upon him, forced back upon him by his dark thoughts, scattering the momentary peace he had felt. It was like being yanked back and forth between two stubborn children who both wanted to play with the same toy, and he found he did not like that mental image at all. It was much too easy to overlay them in a battle zone, with people screaming and running for their lives, the children fighting obliviously among themselves, and him helpless to do anything as faceless riders descended upon them with raised and bloody swords. 

It did nothing to aid his peace of mind. 

Pushing that thought away, he listened intently for any sign that villagers lay in wait past the wooden walls beyond his sight. Distant _clip-clops_ and muffled screams were all that reached him-- nothing close, nothing threatening, but he had long learned it was the threat you did not see which proved the most devastating. Nevertheless, there was nothing for it but to ride out. 

He went left immediately, not bothering to look around him, and took the first right he came to. No shouts went up to announce he had been seen. No hooves raced nearer in rapid tattoo. In fact, he saw no one. Always before when he had doubled back, he would find _someone_ yet patrolling the road, ever ready to take up the cry and bring others upon him faster than he would believe possible so the insane chase could begin anew. 

"What's changed?" he asked of no one, even as there was no one present to answer him. He could hear the commotion from somewhere in the city that told him all was not yet calm. 

Curiosity slowed him as he tried to determine where the sounds were coming from and what they meant. The yells and screams all melded into one, an unearthly roar that prickled the back of his neck-- and stirred a memory. Horses riding hard at him, swords raised high above dark heads-- but he blinked, and judged the roar to come from the direction his pursuers had been heading. He looked that way, frowning, though countless buildings stood between them. 

What was going on? What had shifted the villagers' focus away from him? Had they found Legolas? His friend would face more adversaries than even he could safely handle if so, and his heart ached at the thought that ill might befall him. Again, his mind flashed to the dark riders. But this time it was a familiar face that caught his eyes as they rushed towards him. . . . 

He stiffened and was jerked from memory back into empty streets. A quiet voice, more an impulse than anything else, told him he should leave. It whispered that he should ignore whatever was happening and get out of Caivern. He needed to find his brothers; there was no need to remain here when Elladan and Elrohir were not here, especially as doing so placed him in danger. He should leave. 

But he could not forget Legolas. And as he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that the Mirkwood elf would not leave without him, he could not possibly leave without his friend. 

Aragorn turned the horse about again, and her snort-- he imagined, if it were put into words-- would demand he make up his mind. He smiled at the flight of his own thoughts because it distracted him from the darkness that was taking up residence inside him, the unease that wanted to claim him, and said placatingly, "We're just going to go see what all the fuss is about." 

He set the pace at a rapid trot and turned his head to better hear the chaos. He pushed all thoughts away and barely registered the buildings he passed, though they burned into his eyes with perfect clarity for the brief seconds they were in his sight. He could not have remembered a thing about them later, nor the path he took, but he wove through grid-laid streets following his ears-- which worked just fine, even if they were not so keen as an elf's-- regardless. 

He remembered a game they used to play, when he was about ten, on rainy days that kept them inside. Nearly the whole of Elrond's household would remain indoors, something he had thought the way of things until he was old enough to understand better, and Elladan and Elrohir would pull out a long, thin piece of cloth and a bell. It was one of the few ideas the twins had that Elrond met with approval. 

They would all congregate in the Hall of Fire, those four walls the boundaries of the game, and they would all take turns stumbling around the room trying to find the bell, laughing when they tripped over moving bodies. Then later years, after he was good enough, he and the twins would take it throughout all of Imladris. It never failed that the rules of the game would change with each repetition, and he could still hear the aggravatedly amused shouts of the kitchen staff as they bumbled through the kitchen, laughing, with Elladan as the Blind Man while they were trying to fix dinner. 

Such happy memories, from a simpler time, somehow underscored the trepidation he felt at what he would find. He feared he would find Legolas, caught and tied, hurt and bloodied. He feared the possibility that he would come too late, that he would be unable to help his dearest friend. His fears pricked at the nightmares he had hoped he had left behind him months earlier, picking at them with a persistence he found unnerving. 

He kept the fears at bay with a true and undeniable thought: they may not have found Legolas yet. It gave him the strength to keep his fears unarticulated in his mind. Something else kept him from considering what else could possibly cause such an uproar among the villagers, something he did not look at too closely. 

Then the voices were near, perhaps one street over, and he could make out individual voices, could hear the softer cries amid the spirited yells, the anger and the fear, the pain and anguish. He was surprised to hear higher voices-- the voices of women and children-- in the mix, and had to force himself to approach carefully, with caution. 

He could hear crashes and the crunch of smashed wood. When he came to the corner, he moved forward only enough to see around the edge. But what he saw turned his blood to ice. 

()()() 

()()()()() 

()()() 

_Review Responses:_

**Deana:** "g" I actually hadn't thought about that. I don't imagine he'll be pleased about it, though. Hm, this could be fun.... I suppose if you're an elf, three months could be soon. Right? "looks hopeful" 

**Athelassa:** I'm glad it came out so well. It's not as fun to write a second chapter dealing with much the same stuff, and will be even less thrillling come next chapter. I'll just have to find some way to mix it up. "grins in mock cheer" hehe. I had fun with the hide-and-seek. Um, will definitely keep writing. As much trouble as this story's been, I couldn't possible start now. "g" Thanks for reviewing. 

**AM:** "grins wryly" What about three months? Somehow, I think you may be right. No guarantees, though. The twins and Kalya? What about the twins and Kalya? I didn't forget them. I have plans for them. 

**Veritas and Aequitas:** "sighs" I'm sorry. Soon still isn't soon, though it was closer last time. Twins... We actually get more into the twins in chapter 21. Chapter 20 deals more with Aragorn and Legolas, and finally extracts them from Caivern. Something which can't happen too soon, in my opinion. But I will most definitely not abandon this story. You may be sure of that, even if you can't possibly predict when my next update will be. Maybe we should have a pool, see who comes closest. "g" 

**Grumpy:** lol. Yes, I just knew I had to take advantage of that when Aragorn presented the opportunity. I live to get him in trouble, you know. "g" Em, well this time, I had to read instead of write for a bit to gain some perspective, some inspiration, clear out the cobwebs. We'll hope it makes a difference. 

**DeepBlueSomething:** Neither Aragorn or Elrohir are having fun, but I wager Aragorn's actually better off. The major twin angst comes in chapter 21. No, actually, it comes in chapter 22, but I haven't planned it out yet so I'm not quite sure what it entails. Should be good, if my imagination is up to the task. But that's getting ahead of myself. "g" I'm looking forward to it too. 

**Shadowfaxgal:** "prods gently" Are you still here, hm? I haven't waited too long have I? I don't like dead reviewers. They haunt me in my sleep. "g" Don't worry about being late or forgoing details. So long as you get me a nice, long review eventually I'll be perfectly content. Hehe. Kidding. But I do love to hear from you, and whatever you're willing to give me is wonderful. I feel so warm and fuzzy inside. 

**Cosmic Castaway:** I like your name. It's neat. "smiles" Eh-- "leans away from knives" Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Just let me finish this last page.... "disappears, never to come back" lol. Well, I hope you like it more than you dislike me so you're willing to spare my life to let me continue. "g" 

**Nerfenherder:** Oh, I don't always have it on author alert and I'm not annonymous. "g" I like hunting through the recent updates to find my stories. Lol. Author alerts are rather handy for people like me who never seem to stick to any kind of schedule, though. So sorry. I'm glad my action sequences were not disappointing. "g" And dreams are so much fun. Mwahaha. Eh, well, when I write them short, I get a whole lot of chapters where nothing really happens (witness most of the beginning of this fic) and I just don't know. We'll see. I plan them trying to get to a certain point, and then the length varies by how much I write for each part. Maybe these next couple of chapters will cooperate better. I have a suspicion that part of my problem is the number of characters. There's, um, something like six p.o.v's, give or take (probably give), and three to four per chapter, and each one is coming from a different point. A mild nuisance, but maybe one day I'll be really good at switching between characters. "doesn't hold out much hope for that." Ooh! Hurricanes! Lol. No, not much trouble. A few headaches, a couple fights, hours (days) of darkness and a really cold, impresive rainstorm with lots of wind, but no trouble. In fact, I think I'm ready for another one. "eg" Soon... Well, this was _almost_ soon. At least from your point of view.


	20. Found

Ah ha! Only a month! This calls for a celebration.... After I get some sleep. It's currently quarter after three, in the morning, and I should have long been in bed. But who cares? Lol. This one's nice and long and, I hope, interesting. And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of swordfighting. And horses. And the two of them together. I'll never do it again. Never. 

Hehe. I've written so many action sequences over the last couple of chapters, I don't know what I'll do with the final big action sequence-- I'll have run out of ideas! 

Oh, and a huge thank you for Niniel. She was gracious enough to do a lot of work looking up various stories for me, and I feel so guilty that the actual outcome is quite small. But I couldn't have finished this chapter without you. Hugs! 

Another side note: I have an essay due in my Ancient Mythology class. I consider it a story. We're supposed to write a myth about an ancient hero of our own creation and it's due the Monday before Thanksgiving-- where I'm going with this, is that I won't be able to work on the next chapter until I've finished that. I can't afford to have another late essay. Valar willing, I'll finish it this weekend and have loads of free time to devote to the conflict between Kalya and Elrohir (lol) and be able to get the next chapter out as close to a month after this one as humanly possible. 

Anything else.... Oh! A great big Thank-You-So-Much to everyone who is sticking with me through this crazy posting schedule. You guys are the best. Your kindness and encouragement (threats) and patience (especially patience) make this tedious rewrite so much fun. I love you all. 

Ok, sappy moment over. On to the action. 

**Chapter 20**

He had never seen his home so busy. Not even when the South Men had come that first time, when everyone had still been willing to fight, and it confused him that these strangers who had done nothing wrong would be treated worse than those responsible for the deaths of so many. It frustrated him. 

Jermy ducked into the shadows between two buildings as a group of riders rushed past. The wind of their passage pulled at his clothes and he could not help but peek after them. They almost looked majestic atop their fine steeds, more than just simple common folk. There was something beautiful about a horse and his rider, about the love between man and beast, that called to the soul of every son of Rohan. 

One day, he swore, he would be one of them, and he would ride a handsome steed and wield a gleaming blade the enemy would fear. And he would fight the right enemy. The true enemy. 

He glanced back the way they had come, his eyes sweeping the street hurriedly to check that no one was watching, then slipped from his hiding place and darted up the street three buildings before slipping into a similar crack on the other side. Moving quickly but carefully, he slipped between the buildings to the next street. 

Sneaking from crevice to crevice avoiding grown-ups in the dim light of dawn brought back memories of years past. He remembered trying to wake with the sun every morning so he could beat his father to breakfast and get the sugar-topping in his cereal, then doing his best to disappear before chores began so his father would get a chance to play without mom yelling at him. He had always thought it was exciting, hiding so close to the adults without them knowing he was near. That was where the best stories were told, when they thought they were alone. 

His imagination had been fed on robbers and thieves, waylaying travelers and stealing their jewels, the worst of which also took lives; orcs and goblins that terrorized travelers in the mountains; elves that enchanted the unwary, took you to their mythical lands and stole you from your family; great wars where men with strange names won love and awe from the people who spoke of them; but his favorite story had always been that of the king, the king of legend who was to one day come back to free his lands from shadow. Abyl told him there would be a war, then, and he used to dream he was one of the knights that would fight by the king's side. _That_ would be a wonderful story. . . . 

He slowed to listen as he reached the corner. Any words he heard were jumbled and indistinct, and curiosity pulled him forward to see what was going on. Brianin's house stood before him, the old Caldon place beside it. Curtains were pulled over both pairs of windows but, unlike other nights, he had no desire to see what was within. Instead, he edged closer and peered around the corner, looking first one way and then the other. 

To the west, he saw two more hurrying between doorways, knocking quickly until someone answered the door, their words urgent, then moving away to repeat the process as the doors were closed behind them. He frowned. Warning the women to stay indoors? Or telling them to leave? It almost did not matter. 

To the east, though, not three streets away, he saw a pair of riders hurry past, not even bothering to glance to either side in search of the ranger or his friend. Did that mean they were found? He glanced back at the men. Were they telling everyone the threat was over? But why would they not be coming out to celebrate? 

He watched them a moment longer, turning those thoughts over in his mind. Abruptly, though, he turned and headed in the opposite direction, following the riders he had seen. They would be going to help with the strangers, he was nearly certain, and that was where he needed to be. If they had been captured, maybe he could help. It had looked like they were headed for Donnie's Square. Was that where they had been going to take the strangers? He had thought . . . but no, that did not matter. Maybe they had changed their minds. Maybe he had understood wrong. 

He could not help the slight frown that pinched his face as he moved to follow, trying to walk down the street like he was supposed to be there yet go unnoticed and still trying to work out the situation in his head. It was hard, and he almost wished Abyl was with him. His friend had always been good at that kind of thing and if anyone could figure it out, it was him. But why was it so hard? 

He was distracted from those thoughts upon reaching the largest intersection. The boy glanced behind him, but for all their energy, the messengers were not paying attention to him at all, so he risked peeking around the side of to check that no one was waiting for him before moving onto the street. 

If felt like he was on one of those adventures Abyl used to tell him about. A hero, like Beren on his quest for one of the beautiful Silmarils, or like Eorl who led his people to win a war. It did not matter that he was alone while both his idols had had companions. He already knew he was different than all of them because he was no fierce warrior. He was just a simple boy of no great name or deed, lacking even a sword. But to him, that did not matter. Stealth-- 

A high scream split the air, making him jump. His head swiveled up and over, locking on the direction of the cry, his pale green eyes wide in his thin face. Instinctively, he stilled to listen, catching the other sounds he had overlooked: grunts, exclamations of pain and surprise, crashes, a slow rumbling of hooves no moving in concert, screams. . . . 

He was running before he realized he was moving, no longer worried if he was seen, cutting between buildings like a racer so he could see with his eyes what he heard with his ears. He had to know-- had to see what was going on; neither the ranger nor the elf could make those screams. Had he been wrong? Would they-- no, no; he would not believe ill of them until he had seen it with his own eyes! But his mind whispered 'there's no one else. There's no one else here.' He ignored it to keep running. Regardless of what he found, he could help. He knew he could. He had to. 

His hand hit part of the gate as he slid too close between buildings, scratching the back of his hand so red welled in some of the lines. He ignored it, and only braced his hand on the wall as he stumbled to the end, half-crouching behind a feed barrel to see what was going on. 

It was nothing like he had expected. It was not even what he feared. It was worse than fear, worse that what he could have imagined because it was real. The South Men were here. 

They charged back and forth over the square, more than a dozen strong, running down men, women, children who caught their eyes. It was a slaughter. Horses reared, riders panicked, and everyone ran. Across the way, a group of men watched, smiles on their faces as more of his people died. Still more forced their way into the houses. Sometimes he caught laughter before a mother and her child would run, screaming out of the house-- straight into the killing field, where they were toyed with. He felt sick. 

His eyes could not help but find the dead, drawn to the motionless bodies by a force he could not explain. He saw the blood, the lifeless eyes, the severed limbs. His breath cam in raspy jerks. How could they do this? 

A door slammed, wrenching his gaze from the dead. A woman raced from the building, shrieking, her nightdress torn, puling a small boy behind her. She was right out in the middle of the street before she noticed what was happening, then she started running his way instead. Blood marked her arm, spider-webbed her face, and the little boy clutched a bear, scared to silence as he was dragged along. She never saw the rider come up behind her. He did not see it until it was too late. 

The man was but feet behind her, having appeared like an avenging ghost. Jermy's eyes widened, but his throat was closed. Helplessly, his eyes caught the blood stained sword as it rose, then followed it as it fell, finding the woman's face as she gasped in pain and surprise. Blood welled in her hanging mouth and overflowed her chin. Her panicked steps stopped, and her eyes glittered, focused on nothing. The man rode past without a second glance, and Jermy winced when the woman fell forwards, striking the ground like a limp doll. 

From where he stood, he could see the large red stain on her back, and could not help but see her face before his eyes, slackening in surprised pain, freezing as life abandoned her. He had never thought-- never thought to think-- that death was like that. Death was for the old, leaving in their sleep. It was for warriors, fighting bravely while protecting the innocent and getting rid of evil, the fruit of their valor. It was not supposed to be women, his people, those helpless without a sword. 

He choked on a sob, and felt tears escape his eyes. He wiped at them shakily, trying to look anywhere but at her still form. His eyes darted back the way she had come and caught movement. He focused on it in unreasoning hope. Maybe-- But he saw the little head of red hair and nearly started in surprise. The boy! The little boy! How had he forgotten? 

Jermy looked around feverishly, trying to make sure none of the South Men were nearby. None were. For the moment, attention seemed to be elsewhere. He looked back to the boy. Without stopping to think, he darted out from his hiding place and knelt next to the child. 

"Momma?" he heard as he wrapped his arms around the little one's waist. The child stiffened and more tears choked his small voice. "Momma?" 

"Momma can't hear you," he breathed and picked the boy up. 

He shrieked like someone was torturing him and Jermy automatically let go, moving away as he tried to soothe the child. "Sh, sh! Sh, little one. I won't hurt you, sh! Sh!" 

Watery hazel eyes looked at him warily, the little boy ready to scream again at a moment's notice. _How do you reason with a four-year-old?_ He tried smiling. "Would you like to play a game?" 

"Want Momma." 

"You remember Hide-Me, Seek-Me?" he continued, ignoring the boy's declaration. "You want to hide while I'm It?" 

"Want Momma." 

"What's your name?" 

"Tivin." 

"Well, Tivin, Momma's counting. She needs you to run and hide so she can find you." Jermy glanced up in time to see one of the South Men looking straight at him. His insides felt like ice. He saw the man gesture; he looked back at the child. "How 'bout that? You want Momma to find you?" 

Tivin nodded. 

"Then we need to hide quickly. . . ." He was relieved when the boy took his hand. It evaporated when he saw the man riding towards him. He swallowed. Maybe if they could just reach the houses. . . . "Come on, Tivin." The boy kept glancing at his mother. "Momma can't find you until you hide." 

Jermy glanced back. He could see a smirk on the South Man's face. With a hopeless shudder, he realized they would never make the barrel. He could hear the clap of the horse's hooves coming ever closer. But maybe-- Tivin had been overlooked once; maybe he could be overlooked again. 

"Run, Tivin! Get to the barrel quick! I'm right behind you!" He watched the boy dart off. Just before Tivin made it to the barrel, when Jermy felt the little one was safe, he turned. He saw the blade raised high; it gleamed as rays of the sun caught its length. 

_It's clean,_ he thought. It was the last one. 

()()()()() 

They were closer than he had thought. Charging forward at full-speed, they reached the intersection before he could run two steps. Legolas ignored them, focusing instead on reaching Ardevui. She had run like he had instructed but not so far that she lost sight of her master. If only she had not run so far! 

The ground speed past beneath him, fairly flying beneath his heels. His eyes stayed focused on Ardevui as tension coiled within him. Seconds seemed to stretch forever as he waited for them to notice him, to attack him, and nervous anticipation built within him. Could he make it? Would they miss him? Why had they not attacked him yet? Were they playing with him? He felt like he was shaking. He felt like he would burst. But he was nearly there, nearly to Ardevui. . . . 

"There!" someone cried. He almost felt relieved at the shout, feeling the world fall back into place. Ardevui was mere feet before him; for a moment, he allowed himself to think he would make it. Then his keen ears caught the sharp _twang_ of multiple bowstrings. 

Instinctively, he ducked, folding in on himself as he ran. One passed by his head and he veered right even as a new volley was released. Ardevui neighed in distress, an arrow buried in her flank. "Go, Ardevui! Go!" he yelled. "Noro lim!" He caught a bloody gash across her back before he lost sight of her. 

The lithe elf darted up the steps before him. _Out of sight! I need to get out of sight._ He headed straight for the door, reaching out before he got there to grasp the doorknob. His hand curled around it and twisted, then he hit the door with his shoulder so he would not have to slow, but the door did not budge. 

He slammed into the sturdy wood heard enough to shake the walls. He staggered back, grimacing in pain, half-convinced he broke his shoulder. He did not pause to be sure, though, only taking one step back before running again. He jumped the porch railing and landed lightly back on firm ground. Two arrows bore into the wooden rail almost even with his head. He glanced back and saw part of the group split off to try and corner him on the next street over. The rest continued forward to cut off a retreat. 

He sprinted down the narrow lane as quickly as he could and burst out the other side without pause. He already knew he would not find respite here and had no intentions of seeking it. He headed directly for the next pass between buildings, barely sparing a glance to either side. A pair of arrows streaked past him, neither a threat. A third embedded in the dirt three feet behind him, then he was in the narrow alley between houses. 

Shouts followed him, drifting after him as the South Men struggled to keep up with him. The rapid clicks of hooves hovered under them, background to angry curses. he ignored them in favor of figuring out where he was going to go. 

Outnumbered at least twelve to one, under-armed, and reacting to his enemy, he was even worse off than he was before. Too late, he realized he would have been better off fighting the six on horseback. How much better off was impossible to tell, but he was determined to live long enough to give it some serious thought. First, though, he needed to go from prey to predator. 

The elf emerged into the next street to find himself alone. Moving quickly, he crossed to the nearest house with a porch. He hopped up on the rail near one of the supports, grabbed the edge of the roof, and pulled himself up, using the pole for the extra traction he needed. He could hear them close upon him as he gained the top and threw himself down flat upon the roof just as the men turned the corner. 

Legolas lifted his head cautiously to try and catch what they were doing. At the intersection, he could just make out one who appeared to be the leader gesturing several men to the next street. A livid scar ran from mid-forehead across his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He hung back as the rest of his men began searching the street. He put his head back down and carefully eased further from the roof's edge. He stared at the wood grain as he listened to them moving around below him. 

He heard horses trotting, horses walking, the nearly echoing silence from when they stopped, the crunch of sand under bootheel as they got down to check more easily between buildings, and, punctuating all that, raised voices as they reported their failure. 

"He's not here!" 

"He's not at the east end!" 

"My road is clear." 

"Stev! How's it going?" 

"You ever tried to track an Elf? Them devils don't leave hardly a trace on snow!" 

"Watch your tongue! Or do you forget whom we serve?" 

"I'm just saying I can't find his trail. Once he got here, he could've gone anywhere." 

Legolas took from the silence that followed that now was a good time to move on. Humans were habitually ground-bound, rarely looking above their heads; but Aragorn had shown that not all men were so handicapped, and ones who had had association with the firstborn tended towards such realizations quicker (or he had just been unlucky enough to meet the exceptions to the rule) than most. The last thing he wanted to do was wait around long enough for these men to get the bright idea to check the roof. 

He turned his attention to the wood beneath him, seeing it instead of just staring at it. It was paneled and uneven. There were cracks at irregular intervals all across it and he wondered that they did not fix it. What did they do in the rainy season? 

Moving carefully, all thoughts of human eccentricies pushed resolutely from his mind, the elf slid his hands forward just above the surface and settled his fingers into the crevices. He glanced back, caught his toes in similar holds, and cautiously eased himself further away from the ledge and to the west. He would decide where he was going after he broke their screen. 

Not that that was easy. Or quick. He thought he had seen centipedes who moved quicker than he was now, but there was little he could do. Easing along the roof at foot at a time was as much as he could manage unless he wanted to stand up and announce his presence to his enemy, rendering his disappearing act and subsequent wait useless. And he still had to figure out how he was going to bridge the gap between this building and the next. It was not large but he still could not accomplish it as he was. 

_Will make a great handhold, though,_ he thought, almost savagely. He felt utterly ridiculous. The only thing that could be worse than crawling on his belly hiding from his enemies would be crawling on his belly _through the mud_ hiding from his enemies. But that slight distinction did little to soothe his pride. 

Being treated like a criminal was nothing new and he could handle it easily. Even being scorned by the secondborn, who were not as strong nor as wise as his kind, was something he expected and could overlook. It was this fleeing, this hiding to avoid the enemy, that rankled him. Wood-elves did not hide. 

Unless they had to. He sighed. _Elladan and Elrohir are going to owe me for this._

He curled his hands over the edge and pulled himself to the gap. For a moment he stared down the two foot wide drop to the ground below, contemplating it silently. small wooden boxes, crates, and a barrel were piled about; he wondered what was inside them. He stretched across the gap without finding out, grasping the other building as best he could with his hands. Listening, he could tell none of the men were near enough to see him. 

He risked pushing himself up a little higher and shifted forward until he could brace his elbows on the roof. Then he walked forward, looking like some strange, tail-less weasel. That mental picture did nothing to soothe his smarting pride either, and his elbows were sore by the time he made it to the other side. He did not look forward to repeating the process. The rooftops stretched long before him. 

Only his dedication to his friends kept him going; the voices of the men, ever present, kept him from simply standing up. It was a near thing, though, when they turned to forcing their way into houses instead of just searching the street. 

The first terrified scream had halted him in his tracks. Risking exposure, he had peered over the side to see women and children of all ages forced from their homes and thrown roughly into the street. Only the fact that they seemed too intent with capturing him to actually harm the people had kept him to his resolve to run, never mind the knowledge that he was no good to Aragorn or the twins dead. 

He was also inexpressibly annoyed that they had not moved on after finding the street empty. More than one person had suggested just that, but the leader always shot it down with a persistence that would have convinced Legolas he knew he was there if not for the fact that he was still hidden. 

Upon reaching the last roof, he was presented with a new problem. The elf slowed and approached the edge more carefully having heard movement. He was forced to wriggle forward on his stomach like a snake and winced as little bits of wood pricked him. He eased an eyes over the side and found a man waiting below. 

He was dressed in the same dark, well-made clothing as the rest of the South Men. His dark hair was long and curly, and sharp eyes darted back and forth to take in both sides of the street. He had a square face with the kind of sharply chiseled features that suggested they had been chipped from stone, giving him a rather stern look; and he paced haphazardly across the street, starting and stopping, lingering and taking half-steps amid hurried full strides. It suggested to the prince that he knew he should not pace but was too restless to abide his own advice. That, more than his looks, told him that the man was still relatively young. 

But that still left him with the question of what to do. The human was not nearly bored enough to let him sneak past, and he was too alert to be taken completely by surprise, even by an elf. He could probably throw his dagger and kill the man before he could cry out, but his body hitting the floor would alert the others and Legolas would be weaponless. Besides, it would confirm he was still in the area and he was still painfully aware of the villagers. These men were the type to prey on the innocent to force his surrender, but as they did not appear to have thought of it, he was in no hurry to do something that might inadvertently press it into their minds. Killing the men in battle was one thing; causing the slaughter of innocents was quite another. 

He peered hard at the men, then pulled back and rolled away from the edge, peering up at the slowly brightening sky as he considered the situation. His ears registered anguished cries while his mind focused on getting him off the roof and away from it undetected. The wind that ghosted over his skin was chill. for long minutes, he did not move. 

Suddenly, he did. Rolling quickly, he twisted on his stomach and headed determinedly back the way he had come. The space between buildings came quicker this time, and he peered down it, looking for something in particular, something he thought he remembered seeing on a house further back and thought might be common to all the houses. He found it easily. 

Most human buildings he had seen had two exits: one in the front, the other in the back. The purpose of the second door varied from place to place, but it was consistently for private use, for the family or workers in a store to take trash out without going past the customers. Here, where the backs of buildings were so close together, almost like friends guarding each other's backs, there was not enough space for even the smallest child to squeeze through. So they put the doors where there was room-- along the side. 

He cautiously shifted around to descend feet-first, the task made more difficult by the fact that he could not sit up. Keeping his head down while sliding far enough to brace his feet against either side with little to hold onto to stop him from simply dropping a dozen feet was more than just a little awkward, but he managed it in silence and had never been so glad to set his feet on solid ground. 

The door opened easily (he had half feared it would be locked) and silently, and he slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He found himself in a dark room lit only by the hint of orange glow from the next room over. He pushed aside the cloth that hung in the doorway and found himself in he kitchen. Most of the light came from the stove along the back wall, a pot held over the fire and its contents still sizzling; they had been about to have breakfast. His eyes scanned the small room for something useful. 

A tables, two chairs; various pots, pans and bowls; a wash basin stood kitty-corner to the stove. Little else. His eyes eventually landed on a chopping knife, placed carefully aside to await further use. He picked it up without looking at it and moved through the next doorway. A bed lay against one wall, nearly made except fro the top left corner. Nothing else of interest occupied the room. The last and largest room hosted the front door and held various chairs and couches, rugs and other comforts and decorations. Curtains hung over the windows. 

Legolas frowned as he walked towards the door. He could see the splintered wood where the lock had been forced, the lock itself still intact. He fingered it idly, picturing a man kissing a woman good-bye and telling him to keep the door locked until he returned. what he had hoped to find here, he could not quite remember. Voices drifted in from outside, muffled. 

"Come on, boss. He's not here! We're wasting time." 

"He's here." 

"We've checked this street from one side to the other along with the ones to either side and come up empty." 

"Then check it again." 

"He's probably moved on." 

"Check it again!" 

He heard several pairs of steps hurry away. He wondered, if he had kept running, if they would still have focused their search here. What had tipped them off he was here in the first place? Had not the tracker been unable to find his trail? 

"They won't find anything. If he was still in the streets, he's long gone or gone somewhere else." 

"Somewhere else?" the other scoffed. "Where? The roof?" 

Silence followed. The elf could just image the startled look the man exchanged with his companion. Then, "Get someone up on the roof!" 

Many thumps and curses followed that order, and Legolas wished he could see them trying to scramble up the side of the building. They would probably put a group of bumbling dwarves to shame. A smirk twisted his lips. Maybe not finding him would convince them he had left. In any case, his trip had apparently not been wasted. 

He took a last look around then drifted back the way he had come. The stove caught his eye upon entering the kitchen and he smelled the food that was still cooking away. His stomach rumbled lightly and he gave in to the impulse to take the food off the fire, lifting it away and settling it carefully upon the holder set in the middle of the table. He identified bacon, ham, and sausage amid the grease and nearly laughed. Meat, all of it. Aragorn, apparently, was not the only one who was still growing. His grin widened. 

Footsteps thumped loudly overhead and he cast a wary eye up to the ceiling, which trembled with each heavy thud. Dust shifted down from the rafters, forming a kind of cloud. He turned his head away when the gray specks tried to find his eyes. 

The reason for stomping across the roof all the way to the edge before turning back eluded him as there was no possible place to hide with that street being watched and the only notable construction a small pipe that directed the smoke from the stove up into the air, and that was only large enough to hide a squirrel though the tail was likely to give it away. Still, maybe there was a purpose. Aragorn would sometimes reach the same conclusion he did off seemingly unconnected evidence. . . . 

He drifted back and watched the little dips that marked the man's progress march east. When they slowed near the gap and did not continued on to the other roof, he drifted to the divide. The last thing he needed was the man to realize down was the only place he could have gone, and the side door the most convenient way to disappear. . . . 

The man's feet thud-thudded against the side of the building. Legolas' eyes narrowed. Was he getting ready to climb down? The racket he was making suggested the answer was yes and he was finding it more difficult it even more difficult than Legolas had. He raised a hand to push the curtains aside, then-- 

"Pritch! What in the hell-fires are you doing?" 

He froze. 

"Looking, boss!" 

"Looking? Looking?! Looking for what? The rest of your brain! Is it up there or not?" 

"No, but--" 

"No? Then get down here, we have work to do!" 

The other muttered darkly, his words lost to the elf's ears as he clicked his heels sharply against the wood. Then he started trying to get down again, his feet scratching against the sides. Suddenly, then dropped. There was a loud crash as wood split, then a thud. The walls of the house shook. Legolas listened closely as several other people rushed over, picked him up and started leading him away. One of them put his hand in the middle of the door. It gave slightly and bumped against its frame, but nobody seemed to care. 

Legolas released the breath he had been holding as relative quiet returned, evidencing their retreat. Maybe they would move on and he could leave with no trouble. It would be much easier to find Aragorn and Ardevui if he did not need to run constantly to avoid capture. He started to turn back, but stopped. 

His relief evaporated as scraping metal drifted to his ears. The front door creaked as it was forced open. His hand clutched the borrowed knife and he stepped closer to the wall, listening, waiting. 

"Dago!" 

The man stopped, still in the doorway, and half pulled the door shut as he leaned back out. "Yeah, boss?" 

"Grab some of the food, too! I'm hungry!" 

"Sure thing." Dago continued inside, his gait easy and careless; he swung the door most of the way closed behind him. Had he been worried someone suspected he was hiding in this house, this man would have dispelled any lingering apprehension. He did not even glance around as he reached the table and plucked a sausage link from the pan; he was humming slightly as he dropped it in his mouth and turned towards the couple's bedroom. 

Legolas had been ready to drop the man the instant he entered the kitchen, but a kind of disgusted fascination had stilled his hand when the man ignored everything in favor of food. He stayed prepared to spring in case food made him more observant, but Dago did not so much as twitch his direction. 

Disbelief had him stare after the man, almost willing the other to turn around, as if occurred to the Mirkwood prince that he could yet pass unseen despite the proximity of the enemy, and would likely have no need to worry about future searches because the ever observant Dago would say no one was here. It was an incredible proposition; he felt nearly breathless thinking about it. But something else had caught his eye and drove the thought to the back of his mind, a nagging reminder to hold him motionless. 

Thrown over the man's shoulder to hang with his quiver along his back was a bow. He could see its gentle curve even in the gloom and followed it to where it hung about mid-thigh. His experienced gaze studied it, seeking out imperfections. It lacked the same elegance as his own bow, being a work of men and not elves, but it appeared to be well-made. It was impossible to be sure until he had held it, of course. 

In his mind, he waged a battle even as he silently followed Dago after the man disappeared into the bedroom. He could still go unnoticed, do nothing, and hopefully be overlooked so he would be free to search out Aragorn. Or he could kill Dago (ridding the free peoples of Middle-earth of one more menace) and take his bow, then hope he could disappear before the South Men figured out where he was. That assumed, also, that he managed to slip away without being caught. 

A part of him whispered that he should just stay still, let them draw whatever conclusion they wanted about his presence, then leave when they had moved on; he would be free to help Aragorn. That freedom could prove invaluable. Yet a bigger part yearned to feel the curve of his favorite weapon, the power in the taut string. His fingers itched with the desire to run along the smoothed wood. With a bow in his hands, even if it was not his own, he would no longer be so helpless, so limited. 

_And what if the villagers kill Aragorn while I am hiding in the dark?_ The thought, that fear, made it easier to decide what his heart wanted. 

He shut out the voice that whispered he should have stayed put and crept forward. He could hear Dago digging noisily through the dresser drawer, slamming them shut when he did not find what he was looking for. 

"Don't these damn yokes have _anything_?" A particularly loud _boom_ followed. 

Legolas peeked around the door frame. Dago was starring at a solid wooden dresser like he wanted to smash it to pieces and kicked it for good measure. A string of curses met his ears as the man pulled open the top drawer and began moodily shoving things aside. 

Far from impressed, he slipped into the room doing his best to ignore the words pouring from the other's mouth. It was remarkable how similar men and orcs could be. His lip twitched as he lifted the knife above his head. Anyone who could be compared to an orc deserved to meet their fate-- 

He twisted his wrist and brought the handle down against the back of the man's skull. A dull _thunk_ reached his ears and the invectives abruptly cut off as Dago collapsed. In a battle, he would not have hesitated to kill this piece of scum, but he would not stab him in the back like a coward. He would not become his enemy. 

His jaw clenched, he stripped the man's weapons, put them on, and strode from the room. Whatever else, for better or worse, he now had to leave, and he could not wait before he made his move. And no matter what he told himself, he could not silence the little voice that told him he had just sacrificed his friends for a bow and some arrows. It made him wish for an orc to kill. 

Legolas strode past the kitchen table without a glance, all hunger (and humor) forgotten. A sweep of his hand pushed the curtain aside, and his step never faltered even as he was surrounded by darkness. Only at the door, his hand resting on the handle, did he pause. 

Silence greeted him from the other side. No one stood in the alley, that was good enough for him. He pushed open the door and stepped outside, then carefully shut the door behind him, taking great care not to let it thump too loudly. Too late, he realized that was the least of his worries. 

". . . fool. Should learn to hold onto his weapon-- hey!" 

The man had walked around the corner without seeing him, and Legolas started at hearing his voice. For a breath, each stared at the other, then the man's startled exclamation reached his ears. In the blink of an eyes, he had raised the bow and notched an arrow. It flew with the man's in-drawn breath and lodged in his chest before he could utter another word. 

The elf turned and kicked an ivory-hilted knife. He watched it spin off into the wall with detached curiosity. _Someone died for that, _he thought as he ran. The corner came upon him quickly but he had already decided the best thing to do was just run, and he did not pause as he emerged onto the simple street once more. Four men stood staring at him, shocked. He shot the one blocking his exit without breaking stride. 

The paralysis holding the other three broke. Two went for their own bows as the third yelled, announcing to his companions that the elf had escaped. He could hear the commotion the cry caused. Then he was in the intersection. An arrow flew past his head, shot by the curly-haired youth he had viewed from his roof-top vantage. He did not slow, nor did he fire another arrow. Behind him, he could hear the tale-tell sounds of hooves. he was back where he started, in another place. 

But now he was armed. 

Even as he ran full-out, he knew he had a decision to make and make fast. Quick as he was, even elves could not outrun horses. He had made no plan of where he would go or what he would do once he broke free, but he made an effort now. Where should he go? He could still hear voices-- yelling, agitated, even if he could not make out what they said. An idea popped into his head. 

He swerved suddenly, cutting between the first buildings he came to and darting out the other side. He sprinted out before a horse, and the beast reared, neighing in distress at the creature that startled it. 

Broken curses reached his ears but he ignored them. He darted up the street past two, three, four houses like his feet had wings. An arrow flew past his head, close enough to stir his hair, and the elf knew it was time to turn again. Again he plunged down the next path he came to. He never expected to emerge into a teeming mass of human bodies. 

He was half caught up in the rush-- carried, jostled-- and propelled half a dozen feet back the way he came before he found his feet. He pushed back the way he had come and they gave way easily before him, parting to let him pass like a hot knife through melting batter. He noticed most of them were women. 

The end of the street was mere feet away, and it struck him he saw no new row of buildings for many yards. The way seemed to open up and the people streamed from it like water burst from a dam. He could hear the screams more clearly now, the terrified cries struck at him mercilessly like tiny ice picks. His heart misgave him about what he would find, but he could not stop. 

His feet carried him to the edge and his wide eyes beheld chaos. Amid it, was a painfully familiar form, and he was in trouble. 

()()()()() 

He slipped through the streets largely ignored by the searching Rohirrim. He was known to them; he was not their quarry, so they left him alone. alone to search the lightening streets for his own quarry. If their frustrated words were anything to go by, they were having no more success than he was. 

He was not quite sure how he felt about that. By no means did he wish death upon the strangers who had stumbled into his life, but neither did he wish failure upon his neighbors. It was an uncomfortable sort of situation to find himself hoping the strangers would be successful over the ones who had become his people-- the ones who had taken them in when his family left Gondor. So when his thoughts shied away from the topic, he let them. 

Of more concern to him was Jermy, and the frustration he heard found an echo in his own heart. Their search was unsuccessful, his search was unsuccessful; but it was a hollow comradeship. Both feared, but they did not hear for their prey. He feared for his friend. 

Abyl listened to the commotion around him as he quickly stepped out of the way of a group of riders. They did not ask him if he had seen anyone, did not tell him to go inside, nor demand to know why he was not helping. Indeed, they did not glance at him at all, their focus solely beyond him. For a moment, he feared they had found the ranger and his friend, and his breath caught. But the street was empty. 

His eyes traced their passage, following them around a curve and out of sight as a scream rang through the air. And with a physical _click_ that stunned him, his mind locked onto what had been bothering him. The elusive piece of the puzzle slipped into place. the shouts and crashes that had been pounding in his ears for the last several minutes suddenly made sense. 

Caivern's people were under attack. The women and children were in danger. 

He was running before he even knew what he was doing, following his ears to where his mind had placed the commotion. He had known where it was coming from long before he knew what it was, and his feet carried him there without hesitation. 

Windows, doors, building after building flashed past without a glance, each rising up around him in an effort to block his path. Questions flew through his mind, one after another just like the buildings: What will I do? What can I do? What if it's too late? Too late for what? What if it's over by the time I get there? What if they're gone? What if they're not? 

Who are they? His questions floundered as he realized he did not know. Automatically, his mind turned to finding the answer. The elf and ranger came immediately to mind and were just as quickly dismissed. The sounds he heard were two widespread and numerous to be the work of just two beings, even if one of them was an elf. His mind flashed instead to the South Men-- and found purchase. 

Dread seized him even as he pushed himself harder, faster. He needed to help his people. He burst from the close-built homes into the wide open space of Donnie's Square. And froze. 

Imagining the horror and destruction of those moral-less men was nothing to seeing it. His eyes ranged helplessly over the chaotic mix of bodies. His stomach churned, twisting inside him, and he struggled to find a bit of solid ground within the tumult. A familiar face. . . . 

His breath caught as he finally found who he had spent the night searching for and had not expected to find here. It occurred to him, with a sinking, hollow feeling that he should have known this was where he would find Jermy. Had he not always known that his friend did not understand the danger? 

He did nothing (could do nothing, his feet frozen to the ground) as the Rohirrim youth convinced a little boy to come with him, ushering him away from the destruction of his people. He saw Jermy glance hurriedly over his shoulder and followed the look curiously. His gaze landed on a dark-brown horse with a dark-clad rider on top. Recognition flared through him and his heart-jolted, caught by the blade that swung into the air. 

Brown eyes darted back to his friend, hoping against hope that he would be out of the way, but he was not. He watched the South Man gain on his friend and ached for a sword, a bow-- a weapon of any kind, and felt anguish grow inside of him as he realized his helplessness. He could do nothing to save his friend. 

"NO!" 

The cry ripped form his throat, a tortured cry alien to himself. Tears pricked his eyes and his throat closed in upon itself, strangling him. He barely noticed the little boy gaining the safety of the houses, nor the South Man's attention as his desperate cry turned the being's head. All he saw was Jermy. All he could see was his friend falling to the ground, his head severed from his body, surprise forever etched onto his innocent face. 

All he knew was that his friend was gone, and he had failed him when he had needed him most. He did not notice as Jermy's fate charged towards him to claim his life. 

()()()()() 

The open space of the square surprised him almost as much as the chaos did. He had not seen it from afar and this was not how he would have wished to find it. Everywhere, people moved-- women with skirts flying, children on short legs, men both on horse and foot struggling against each other to protect or take. Fear was heavy and colors blurred: red, black, beige, white, brown, gray, green. . . . 

Almost automatically, his eyes found the lone area of stillness amid the fervor: three men upon horseback. The tumult of their making gave them a wide berth and him a clear view. All wore dark colors with cloaks of light-leeching black, but it was the middle one that drew his eye, that sent a jolt of ice through his veins. Red stripes decorated the edges of his cloak. 

Recognition left him cold. He had long suspected they would find the Slyntari at the end of their journey, but that did not prepare him for the reality of finding them in Caivern. 

Without taking his eyes from the trio, he pulled the mare to a halt. She danced uneasily beneath him but he barely noticed. Should he run? Could he? His presence had not been noted yet. It would be so easy just to turn around and pretend he had never come. So easy, yet he found he could not move. The screams still echoed in his ears. 

Indecision gripped him, held him immobile. He could leave, yes; but could he live with himself if he did? _My whole life has been dedicated to the service of others that I might be worthy of my heritage. Who would such a retreat serve?_ His mind tried to answer his brothers, but his heart knew the answer to be himself. Miserable, his eyes traced the small, satisfied smirks on the Slyntari's faces. He followed their gaze idly to find what amused them. . . . 

Aragorn hissed. His fist clutched convulsively around the grip of his sword, his body tense, but it was useless gesture. The boy was too far away for him to aid, and for once he would have preferred a bow to a blade. All he could do was watch as, across the square, Jermy met his doom. His helplessness soured in his mouth. 

"NO!" 

The anguished cry whipped his head to the left. Abyl stood at least thirty feet away, his brown eyes focused on his friend. The ranger felt his heart break, the youth's pain finding an echo in his fear; it was all to easy to place Legolas at that rider's mercy with his golden head the one that was lost. 

His eyes tracked back toward Jermy to assure himself it was not, in fact, Legolas that had fallen, and instead caught the Slyntari rider, who by now had seen what he had seen: Abyl. A quick glance showed the boy was not aware of his plight. He looked back to the rider. _Easy prey_ could be read in his dark gaze as he started forward. 

In that moment, Aragorn made his decision. His presence had cost the life of an innocent, of far too many innocents; he could not abandon them to face this threat alone. He kicked his steed forward without taking his eyes from the killer. One child had paid the price for his ineptitude; he was determined another would not follow. Abyl did not deserve to suffer this fate. His concentration narrowed as he charged. 

The thunder of hooves took over his hearing. His eyes darted between the two, measuring the distance, urging him faster as it appeared he would be too late. He saw the pleased smirk on the Slyntari's face, saw him raise his sword above his head; saw the beginnings of fear in Abyl's eyes as he finally-- too late-- registered his danger. 

Then he was there. His own sword whistled through the air as he conferred the chosen fate upon Jermy's killer. Abyl fell back, knocked over by his passage, and the dark stallion reared back at his sudden arrival. His front hooves battled the air; Aragorn felt a blow against his side that kicked the air from his lungs. Something popped, but he ignored it. The mare was limping when he pulled her up and around to return to Abyl. 

the young man was looking up at him as he approached, the pain in his eyes sharper than ever. "Are you all right?" he asked, feeling the inanity of the question but unable to come up with a different one that conveyed what he wished. 

Abyl nodded. "I am unhurt." 

It occurred to him that that was what he had really wanted to know. He nodded distractedly, his attention turning outward as his training kicked in and reminded him of the others that shared the square. His eyes swept the area, taking in the dozen or so men that had been alerted to his presence by his actions. They moved towards him deliberately, the women and children they had been charging now passing unheeded, ignored. Glancing past them, he could see the three leaders. Their smiles as the watched made him uneasy. 

He glanced at the dark-haired boy out of the corner of his eyes. "Abyl. I want you to return to the Inn." 

"I won't make it," the youth replied. "They'll get me before I get halfway." He was backing up slowly, his eyes darting trying to see every man at once. 

"Is there somewhere closer you can go?" 

"I dunno. Maybe." 

"Leave behind me and get there as quickly as you can," Aragorn instructed. 

"But Jermy--" 

"Is dead. Now, go!" 

Dark brown eyes glanced anxiously at Jermy. For a moment, Aragorn thought Abyl would stay despite his insistence, but all at once, he turned and left. The ranger half-watched him leave, wanting to be sure he was safe, but he dared not take his eyes off the Slyntari that long. It was more important that he keep the men from following the boy. He would make sure they could not follow. 

()()()()() 

Drevist watched the confrontation with interest. It appeared he and his men no longer had to search for their target. It had found them. Just like his lord had said. 

Dark eyes flickered between his men and the ranger. Even had Shirk not warned him, he would have known this one was trouble. It was in his bearing, his look-- the way he eyed his opponents with an uncompromising stare that challenged as well as evaluated. There was a fire in his eyes that told the lieutenant he was going to be stubborn and uncooperative. 

Fortunately, Drevist knew how to make obstinate individuals more agreeable. And the ranger had just shown him his leverage. "Trik," he said, getting his left-hand man's attention. "Go get the boy." 

Trik disappeared from his side without a word, heading out to the streets to find his new assignment. Drevist paid him no mind, but a sly smile grew on his face as, before him, the first blows fell. 

_Fight all you want, Ranger, but you've already lost this game._

()()()()() 

Blow after blow fell, coming from every direction. He had thought he could manage. By the third strike, he knew he was in over his head. 

The stroke fell hard against his upraised sword, the impact shuddering to his elbow. He felt himself sway and gripped the saddle's horn tighter. The horse kept prancing forward and backward, side-to-side, snorting in agitation. None of which helped his shaky balance. He met the next strike firmly, then nearly missed the next fighting to keep his balance. 

Swordfighting was something he had grown up with. Stories and sticks when he was little, a wooden practice sword when he was eight-- the first lessons in technique. Games, counting off forms, endless lessons on balance and admonishments to move his feet. He had spent endless days sparring with his brothers, learning the art of the sword. Horseback riding, too, he had learned at their hands, amid laughs and simple games. Yet never had they combined the skills, and never had he asked. He had always thought if you knew both it would be a simple matter to combine them. Now, he rued his lack of forethought. 

He swung the sword back the other way, heard it clash with a counterpart, then whipped it up to block one intended for his head. It struck and he twisted it up and over, swirling it around and down. A quick slash removed a hand. He tried to bring the blade back to the left-- but he had forgotten it was not just himself he had to watch out for. 

The sword slashed across the horse's back, jerking as Aragorn realized what he had done. He pulled the blade up, but the damage was wrought. She reared, leaping suddenly onto her hind legs. He grasped the saddle convulsively as he started to fall, felt the breeze as the blow he had been trying to block swished past. He felt himself slipping despite his grip and considered that he might want to get off before he was thrown off. 

The mare crashed back to the ground and nearly threw him over her head. He clenched his knees tighter into her sides and tried to push himself backwards. His eyes felt ready to pop out of his head. 

He watched the ground rush towards him. He could imagine the pain when he hit. Then the mare reversed, rushing towards him quicker than the ground. He crashed against her neck, his hand slipping from the saddle, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Then he was floating, the supple flesh no longer beneath him, as the horse twisted one way and he the other. Vaguely, he noticed the Slyntari backing away as he fell. 

He tried to roll, to twist so he would not break his neck, but his mind would not tell him which way would accomplish that, and he had only just started when he ran out of time. He landed hard on his shoulder, an explosion detonating between his arm and neck. Before he could react, his momentum carried him to his back, and he choked as the air was forced from his lungs. He tried to breathe, tried to replace the air that had been stolen, but his lungs had forgotten how to work. 

_It was never this bad when I fell as a child,_ he complained silently. Admittedly, he had never had many opportunities to fall on his back from something as high as a horse. _But it was really my shoulder I fell on,_ he reasoned. _Maybe if I held my breath. . . ._

The thought trailed off as something appeared above him. He had no idea what it was, but between one second and the next, he knew he had to move. His eyes wide, he rolled. Fire sprang through his left side, engulfing him like dry wood as something in his shoulder shifted in protest. 

_Broken,_ his mind noted as he grit his teeth. Something had struck his back, drawing a line from one side to the other before slamming into the ground. But he finally knew what they were: hooves. And that was all the incentive he needed to move through the pain. With Hodoer, he might have risked trying to calm him, but he was not about to gamble the solidity of his head on a strange horse. 

The ranger came up on his hands and knees, tensed and ready to roll again if his first had not taken him far enough. He looked around quickly and jumped to his feet, the injured mare no longer his primary concern. 

The Slyntari had closed in again as their own movements took horse and rider further apart. They towered over him atop their steeds, each with sword drawn and waiting. His eyes darted over them, then dropped to quickly search the scuffed ground. He found it quicker than he had expected, but that was little comfort as it was also several feet farther away. Dare he? Could he reach if before they were on him? 

His eyes came back up, and one of the men stepped forward as if in answer, his sword held warningly before him. "It's over, Ranger," the man told him. "You've had your fun, but now it's time to come along quietly." 

His jaw worked, but Aragorn bit off the words he had started to say. "When you have put forth so little effort?" he queried instead. 

"The time for games has passed." The other's words were sharp with anger. "Our lord wants to speak with you. You have made him wait long enough." 

Aragorn's eyes narrowed at that. "I do not answer to your lord," he replied firmly. "You may jump at his every whim, but I shall not." 

"So be it. You will wish you had come with us quietly." 

A retort danced on the tip of his tongue, but the Slyntari raised his sword. Behind him the others moved closer, and the ranger decided going for his sword was his only option. Keeping his eyes locked on the leader, he took a step back, then another, letting his leg collapse beneath him and dump him to the ground. 

Only years of practicing on the soft grasses of Rivendell as a child allowed him to roll through the fall and come up crouched on his feet a body's length away. Still crouched, he wrapped his fingers around the sword's hilt and tried to ignore the horse behind him as it reared, disturbed by the human's proximity. His back throbbed where the mare had struck him. 

Ignoring the pain from his fall, the ranger charged forward, startling the horse that had come toward him, and thrust his sword into the rider's belly. The man gasped, his hands moving to the wound. The horse sidestepped and he slid to the ground as Aragorn pulled back his sword. 

Hoof beats warned of attack from behind, and he whirled, swinging his sword in a high arc that redirected the strike. Thwarted with blade, the man kicked him in the side as he passed. Aragorn grunted. The next attack came from the right, and he swung his sword up to meet it. He grit his teeth as the motion stressed his collarbone. He earned another kick to the ribs for his trouble, this one comprised of a lot more stirrup than boot. He hissed. 

Vexed and sore, he spun with the man's retreat and slapped the flat of his sword against the steed's rump. The horse started, darted forward and momentarily spooked two horses that had been coming up behind him. Not quite back to where he started, he ducked the next blow and scythed his blade across his opponent's leg. The hilt of the other's sword caught his temple on the downswing, and he stumbled, clipping the stallion's left hind leg in the process. He was willing to bet the glancing contact hurt him more than the horse. 

The ranger regained his balance in time to see the world's final spin and almost groaned as it chased a new opponent into view bare feet away. He dodged, dealing a glancing blow to something, and almost wheeled backwards in surprise as he came face-to-face with another human. _Where--_

Prank-honed reflexes got his sword up between him and his enemy. Instead of bisecting him from shoulder to hip, the cut only slashed his forearm. He shrugged it off, gained a half-step of distance, and struck back. The metal rang sharply, almost drowning out the approaching hoof beats. He ducked at the mast minute and felt the steel graze the top of his head. Something tickled his scalp. 

He stumbled back, off-balance, as the fighter took advantage of his momentary lapse to strike at his defenses. The next followed quickly, before he could set his feet, and he half-ran, half-fell back to avoid the rapid strikes. His efforts took him nearly to the middle of the square. 

Too late, he realized he was exactly where they wanted him, where they were best-served, and knew it was the last place he wanted to be. If only knowing that brought him anywhere near changing it. 

The warrior backed off, allowing Aragorn to regain his equilibrium. He glanced around as the circle reformed, supplemented to boast two dozen mounted riders. Another four beings slipped between them to join the one fighter on the ground. He looked past them all, thinking that the villagers could take advantage of their distraction, but either the villagers were not willing to oppose the Slyntari now that they were here or their numbers were greater than he had supposed. Cries of fear and sparse clashes of fighting still reached his ears. 

The first fighter addressed him as his gaze meandered back to the dark warrior. "Last chance, Ranger," he growled. 

Aragorn responded by raising his sword. Then he charged. 

()()()()() 

Abyl paused just out of sight of the square. The street was empty. As far as he could tell, everything was happening where he had just left. He would be safe anywhere that was not there, just like the ranger wanted. So why was the square the only place he wanted to be? 

Jermy flashed before his eyes, frozen in that moment before the blade fell. His wide, fearful eyes cut into the dark-haired youth like a hundred knives. Why had he not done something? He could have yelled. He could have at least _tried_ to reach his friend. He should have done _something!_ Why had he just stood there? 

Tortured brown eyes stared through the house that blocked his view trying to pierce the wood and steel to view the square, to see his friend. More than anything, he wanted to go back and pull the Rohirrim's still body into his arms and watch over him. He knew too much of death to hope his friend might come back, but he still wanted to spend a last moment with him, tell him good-bye, maybe tell him a last story. . . . 

His eyes stung with the effort of holding back tears and his throat felt like sharp talons were tearing it apart. He had not even had a chance to say good-bye. Why did he never get to say good-bye? 

He stumbled forward on uncooperative legs, torn, fighting within himself to go or stay. His head said leave, find shelter, stay out of the way, listen to the ranger because he spoke sense. But his heart-- his heart screamed that he could not abandon his friend, could not leave his body to be trampled by men who would not care if he was gone, if they never saw his quick smile nor had to roll their eyes at his hopeless naiveté, or laugh at his enthusiasm. 

_He always made sure I laughed,_ Abyl thought sadly. _Did I do the same? Was I as good a friend to him as he was to me?_ He knew in his heart the answer was "no." _And now I can't make it right._

He lost his battle with his tears as two slid down his cheeks. "Why didn't I do something, Jermy? I could have done _something._" But no voice answered his miserable appeal. 

Suddenly, he wheeled, some instinct telling him he was no longer alone. He tottered off-balance as he backed warily away from the rider that had appeared only a couple of streets down who seemed to be headed straight for him. He was uncomfortably aware of what he had just said, what he had revealed (if only in his mind), of Strider's admonishment to go quickly, and, once again, of the fact that he was unarmed. 

He glanced anxiously at the nearby houses, but every one he could see was locked. Would they open the door in time if he banged hard enough and called for help? He doubted it. Anyone still in the houses would be spooked. No one would come. That left running. 

Running to _where_, he would figure out later. 

He looked left, but the only place to go there was the square. The last thing he wanted to do was give the South Man an opportunity to get help. The townspeople, he knew, would be none. That left right. Maybe, just maybe, he could lose him by cutting between houses. 

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for at that moment, the man charged. Without thinking, Abyl ran. Darting between the two closest buildings, he took a right, then a let, followed by another left and a right. He checked every house he passed hoping for an open door and desperately tried to come up with a plan. Just running would never cut it. 

He listened and heard the familiar hoof beats still to the left and somewhat behind him. They sounded like they would pass him if they simply continued as they were. Maybe if he slowed down and stayed out of sight when they passed, he would be able to double-back and slip away. It was the best plane he had. 

Abyl stopped running and waited. Listening hard, he tried to judge when the best time to move would be. A frown pinched his brow as they seemed to slow-- was the rider having second thoughts? Had he caught onto his plan-- but they did not stop, just paused like someone had stopped to glance down a small path, then moved on with their interest past. When he judged they were safely past his street, he moved. 

He glanced both ways, feeling-- inexplicably-- like someone was watching him. No one was there; he plunged into the crevice straight ahead of him to buy time to figure out where he was going to go. At the end, the turned right. 

A dozen rationales rushed through his mind. The clearest was _"At least it'll put more distance between me and him,"_ but he could not be sure that was why he chose it. His nerves jangled, and every shadow felt like it had eyes. The silence seemed to whisper, but he could almost convince himself that was the commotion back in the square. His imagination was playing tricks on him because he was too far away to hear them clearly. Regardless, the last thing he wanted to do was stand still to find out. 

In the open space of the road, he sprinted. The buildings seemed to shrink in on him with every step he took and, suddenly, he wanted to be back with Strider. Anywhere but here, alone, with nothing but his own thoughts and empty, staring houses for company, a killer on his trail. Strider would protect him. . . . 

He slowed as he reached one of the roads leading to the square, the same one the man had chased him down, his eyes seeking the faraway place where he had left his friend and only help, both. Could he go back? 

An arm suddenly wrapped around his throat, startling a gasp from him even as he lashed out to free himself as he had been taught. The blow landed squarely and the grip loosened. he pulled away, turning, to knock him out, and found his wrist caught in an iron grip. Before he could react, he was spun and held tight against the man's chest with no room to break free. 

A sharp whistle stilled his struggles. Quickly approaching hoof beats registered in his straining ears, and with a twinge of embarrassment, he realized what had happened, what he had fallen for. He set his jaw grimly, determined not to let his captor see he was scared or chagrined. 

He could not help the panic, though, when he realized the man was not just going to kill him. 

"Easy, boy," the South Man growled, voice dark with grim amusement. "You're going to help us with your friend." 

()()()()() 

Anyone else would have given him surprise. After all, who in their right mind attacks with nearly thirty to one odds while injured and at a significant disadvantage? Him, obviously; but they could not know that. Could they? 

He shoved the thought aside. The blade was harder. It had another will behind it, a counter to his own, and every movement made him want to turn his blade on himself, the peculiar ache in his shoulder a new kind of torture. But he kept his left hand on the hilt and forced himself to move: parry, strike; parry, jab-- _clash_, scratch, turn, jump back. The blade missed his chest by bare inches. His eyes stayed locked on the other, trying to predict where the next blow would fall. But the other seemed to be pulling back. . . . There was something in his stance-- 

Aragorn whirled. Blade held high, the swords crashed. Again, he had to give ground. The next strike came from the right, then the left, then the right. Each one backed him further. He was being driven in a circle, passed from fighter to fighter until he gave up or was simply too tired to move, and he could see no way out. He swung his blade into the next strike with all the strength he could muster. 

The impact traveled clear to his shoulder. It felt like someone had tried to pull his arm off. Or simply took a stab at shattering every bone in his arm. He stepped back to keep from overbalancing and felt his heel catch-- his momentum sent him flying backwards. He flung his hands out and twisted, stepped wide with his other foot, felt the ground bite his knee, the sand scatter over his hands, up his shirt, and-- miraculously-- ended up back on his feet feeling like he had just run into a wall. His left arm, from the shoulder down, was stiff and painful. And now he did not even have his sword. 

The ranger raised defiant silver eyes to the man approaching him. Dark-haired with a thin, somewhat pointed face and ratty dark brown hair, the maniacal smile he wore gave him the appearance of a child's worst nightmare of a clown. "You should have chosen the easy way, Ranger," he said, sticking his sword in his belt. "Now that choice is lost to you." 

Aragorn expected a punch, then. He did not expect it to come from behind. Light flared before his eyes, followed by a spike of pain. He was stumbling forward almost before he realized what had happened, the pain almost seeming to pull his head forward. He hissed. The knowledge that he would not be able to simply surrender now if he had wanted to flashed through his mind just before the other's fist connected with his jaw. He spun as he fell, and failed to stifle a surprised cry as pain flared through his arm and up his neck. 

A cry-- not his own-- touched his ears, dimly registered in his mind. But who made it, and why, was beyond him as pain struggled to engulf him. He was only faintly aware of dark shapes passing as he rolled onto his back. A sharp kick to the side was his reward. 

Legolas released another arrow almost before the first had found its mark. The slender shaft buried itself in dark-clad flesh. He could see Aragorn on the ground, a man standing over him, and several others nearby, but he could not reach them through the press of bodies. His only comfort was that most of the men had abandoned the circle, coming after him instead. 

Arrow after arrow flew as nearly two dozen riders bore down on the lone elf. The Mirkwood archer held his ground, firing steadily, counting arrows. Man after man fell to his deadly aim until they ventured too close. The last to fall was barely six feet away, and Legolas swung up on the horse's back as it passed. He pulled the beast around and dislodged the original owner, then switched his borrowed sword with his bow. 

Aragorn gasped, feeling bones shift in his side. His vision swam, colors blurring, the sounds that had been so clear fading and coming back, like he was moving quickly along a tunnel. Pain, fear, anger, frustration-- with himself and these cursed men-- chased themselves around his head. He could not focus. . . . 

_"A clear mind is your best advantage in battle, Estel," Elladan whispered told him, staring straight into his eyes. "It does not help you to dwell on pain or anger, nor failure or victory. Battles are measured in moments, not deeds. Once it is done, it is gone. Battle is a feat of the present, not the past. Remember that. Now, clear you mind. . . ."_

His brother's clear voice cut through the fog that had been enveloping him as nothing else had. His eyes narrowed as he pushed his way past the pain. It was harder to push aside his fatigue, but he had never been one to shy away from a task because it was difficult. When he saw the booted foot descending toward him again-- a flash out of the corner of his eye-- he did not hesitate. 

Ignoring the pain, he rolled onto his side. The kicked landed and he curled forward, wrapping his body around the man's legs. The Slyntari stumbled, caught off-balance, and stepped forward, whether to punish him or keep his dignity, the ranger did not know or care. The moment the other leg was in ranger, he seized it too, holding them together. A startled oath reached his ears, a boot toe clipped his lower back, then he rolled, pulling his burden with him. 

The man struggled, clawing at thin air to stay on his feet. Aragorn pulled harder and gravity won. The other fell suddenly, taking his nearest companion down with him. Startled curses marked their descent, but he paid it no mind as mild chaos erupted, the remaining group rushing forward to help their comrades. For a few moments, attention was not focused solely on him. 

He twisted and pushed himself up on his hands and knees, freeing himself from the other's legs. Two of the other three stood over their fallen comrades, trying to pull them up, only to find their help unappreciated. The closest tripped over a pair of legs and fell across his companions. He landed mostly on the leader's failed brace, and the man shoved him hard, eliciting laughs fro his companions. 

Quickly, Aragorn punched the leader, taking advantage of their lapse, and pulled the man's sword. He had gained his feet and a little distance by the time anyone was ready to confront him. Beyond them, he could see the rest of their companions riding and wheeling, like vultures fighting over carrion, and within those dangerous circles, he saw a flash of gold. It darted in and out, weaving almost effortless among the darkness. 

Relief surged through him, washing away the deep fear he had not even been aware was weighing on his mind, sapping his strength. Legolas was fine. New energy surged through him. 

Then he was fighting. Keeping the sword in close, he moved it as little as possible to block the blows that fell upon him, clanging ardently. Each clash threatened to wring a wince from the ranger, but he forced himself on. He needed to end this before the others joined the battle; he was in no shape to split his defenses, and he had learned early that the Slyntari were not to be trifled with. 

He ducked a powerful swing and stepped forward, sliding the blade across the man's belly as he passed through his defenses. The man crashed to his knees and slumped, his life's blood seeping out onto the dry ground. There was little room for relief, however, since all but the leader had now recovered and faced him with swords raised. 

Aragorn took a tentative step backwards, testing their reactions, and took another when they did not move. His eyes darted between them, flickering over each steady glare for the telltale sign that would warn him who would attack first. All currently stood before him, but he knew that could not last. Briefly, he wondered if he was capable of fighting them once the split up. _My collarbone will hinder me. But how much? Enough to make defense against them impossible?_ He grit his teeth against thoughts of defeat. He would win because he had to. 

Then the left-most man moved. His build was broader, his hair a shade or two darker than Aragorn's own. His eyes were more blue than gray. The ranger swung his sword up to block the blow, then met the strike from the right, delivered by the right-most man who had light brown hair, almost chestnut. His eyes were a match for the other's, a definite blue gray. He wondered if the resemblance was a trick of his mind or if they were truly related. Frivolous, perhaps, but at least his mind was not focusing on how tired he felt. 

He backed up under the blow, a high strike from the man in the middle that he caught near the hilt above his head. He looked momentarily into light green eyes the color of new spring grass and found a loathing he had not expected. Personal, he would have said, but he had never met this man in his life. Then he let his legs drop out from beneath him, and the man fell away, whirled out of sight as he dropped into another roll. He heard swords clash just past him, and knew he had guessed right. 

He continued the roll and let it carry him back to his feet, rising immediately instead of remaining in a crouch. The world swirled queasily before him, and he staggered to the side. His eyes felt like they were trying to roll opposite directions in his head. _A concussion,_ the healer in him noted disapprovingly. _Legolas is not going to be pleased._

_And the broken bones are just gonna tickle his fancy, huh?_ another voice countered scornfully. It was only after his vision cleared, that he realized the leader was no longer on the floor, no longer in his sight. 

Reacting purely on instinct, peripherally aware of what it could mean if he was wrong, he spun, slicing his sword through empty air behind him-- except it was not empty. The blade cleaved deeply into the man's unprotected stomach, dumping his blood down the front of his trousers. For a second, the man's arm remained raised over his head, ready to crash over its victim's head, then it fell as the will that held it up fled the mortal body. 

Drevist was no longer smiling. This elf and ranger were proving to be more trouble than he had anticipated. Stubborn, he had expected; skilled, even exceptionally skilled, came as a bit of a surprise. This had the potential to be quite costly for him. 

He cared little for who lived or died, the men themselves little more than pawns required to do his lord's bidding, but one did not just throw away his master's subjects without sufficient cause. It would be impardonable to lose more men than absolutely necessary. All were needed for his master's plans; his resources were not so limitless as they used to be, and until such time as his power had been restored, none were to be thrown away casually. 

He frowned as he watched the ranger dance away from his captain and turn to face the remaining trio. All four blades flashed, but the ranger seemed to be holding his own. His gaze traversed further and landed on the elf. The lithe creature was being disturbingly successful at diminishing his numbers. Of the original two dozen that had stood against him, less than a dozen remained. If this battle continued much longer, he would need to call in the rest of his squad. That was not something he wanted to do as they were currently . . . otherwise engaged. 

Another man fell with a deft strike to the throat, taking the elf's opponents to seven. He was just debating calling his men back from their other duties when two things happened: the men arrived at the square, their charges secured; and Trik returned with his burden. His smile returned. 

Aragorn ducked a blow and met the next. Quickly stepping backwards, he got his elbow beneath the third's arm, redirecting the strike, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's face. The other staggered backwards and the ranger danced around to put all three on one side. He could barely feel the fingers of his left hand through the painful numbness. 

_I need to end this,_ he thought, but that knowledge did him no more good now than it did earlier. He continued to swing his sword to block every strike, the blade moved almost solely by his right hand. His arm was beginning to ache with fatigue. He was not sure how much longer he could force himself to move. 

The swords flashed furiously. Left, right, high, right, left, right, low, sweep, duck. He rolled to the side and scored a glancing blow to the lighter-haired man's sword arm. He pulled back, allowing his look-alike to take over. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Green Eyes had regained his feet. He had maybe ten seconds to take this man out of the fight before he was right back where he started. Pulling strength from some reserve he barely knew existed, he went on the offensive, for the first time since the battle started directing the path of the engagement. 

Surprise flickered through those blue-grey eyes. He struck quickly, determined not to give the other a chance to think, needing to keep him off-balance. High, low, side-to-side, he came from as many angles as possible, aiming for that one stance when the Slyntari never remembered to keep his elbow up and far enough into the engagement that it presented a sizable opening. 

The seconds ticked down. Five, strike to the right, four, another to the left, three, back right now jab center. The man danced backwards, swirling Aragorn's sword as his mental timer reached two. And there it was. 

He struck, but the man was not there. The other had duplicated the ranger's earlier escape and was rolling through his fall. At any other time, Aragorn would have had him, would have followed him and been there to deliver a killing blow the moment he came up, but now he did not have the time. 

He whirled, his blade his only barrier as Green Eyes slammed into him just as a commanding voice rang through out the clearing. 

_"Ir-khat!"_ it yelled. 

Resentment sparked in the man's pale eyes as the Slyntari abruptly engaged, delivering an extra push for good measure. Aragorn stumbled backwards before finding his feet. He was surprised to find his opponents granting him a wide berth, well out of range of any attack he might throw; and ever more surprised to discover the skirmish by Legolas had halted, as well. His gaze traveled back towards the silent trio. 

He failed to be quite surprised when he saw the middle-most of the group (the third of which was missing) riding forward. The man wore his authority well; he sat tall in the saddle, his gaze sharp and intelligent, commanding, just like his voice. "I will accept your surrender now, Ranger," he said easily. 

"What makes you think I would be inclined to give it?" he countered. 

A grin-- the same he had observed upon his arrival-- curved his lips. "I've heard Rangers were reasonable people," he commented, continuing without waiting for a response. "A choice then. We'll see if your reputation is deserved, Ranger." 

He waved his hand theatrically, directing Aragorn's gaze to the left. More black-cloaked men prodded a group of some twenty-five young men and boys into the square, each bound hand and foot and secured to his neighbors to make escape difficult. Many of the boys were shivered, their slender shoulders covered in nothing but their coarse shirts. Several had split lips or bruised cheeks. 

"Your choice stands thus: your life, or theirs." 

"And why should he make such a choice," Legolas demanded from behind him, "when you shall simply kill them anyway?" Aragorn was grateful for his interference; a vice had settled about his chest, and he was not sure he could speak. 

The Slyntari's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Hold your tongue, Elf, if you value your life. Your continued existence depends upon my generosity, which your friend will decide." Dark gray eyes burned into his own. "What's it to be, Ranger? You can end this pointless battle now before more lives are lost or you can prolong it and insure each of them die." 

"As will your men," Aragorn answered, his voice far calmer than he felt. 

"But not before their innocent blood paints the land you walk on." 

"You presume I would risk much for strangers." He wished he could turn to look at Legolas, wished he knew if his friend had some plan. But the elf was silent; if he knew a way out of this, he was holding his tongue. 

"You suggest such presumption is wrong," the Slyntari replied easily. "Yet have long risked their lives for beings they have never met. Regardless, I had suspected you might feel that way." 

The man now gestured to his other side, drawing Strider's attention to the right, to a lone horse with two riders. The elder rode behind and was easily recognizable as the missing third party from the leader's trio. He gripped the younger tightly before him, twisting one arm across his neck to keep him immobile. Aragorn's heart dropped as he recognized the young man. 

Dark gray eyes regarded the boy a moment before returning to the Dúnadan. "I, myself, don't know what you see in him. A little of yourself, perhaps? What would you risk for him, I wonder?" 

Aragorn did not answer. 

"Hm, perhaps that is the wrong question. What I mean to say is: what would you give up for him? For all of them? Surely such a simple request is not worth all their deaths." 

_"Be wary in accepting your enemy's requests, my friend. Even the smallest cracks can break a dam. Once you have given into one thing, you are closer than ever to giving them everything they wish. And it will sneak upon you, because it seems such a little request."_

Glorfindel's lesson rang in his ears. His soul cried _Never relent!_ finding refuge with his pride, which railed against the thought of surrender like a desperate man facing death. Yet how could he, when he knew his refusal would mean the death of innocents? Long had he struggled against the evil that would take the lives of children, and now he knew not which path to take. 

He could feel their fear. 

He could feel their eyes. The Slyntari, burning, eager to claim him; the children, fearful, pleading, turning to him as their lone hope to make everything alright; Abyl, begging him to find a solution he, himself, could not see that would end; and Legolas, whose silence said more than the weight of his gaze ever could. He knew his friend would follow as he chose, but here, now, that knowledge lent him no comfort. 

He knew what it would mean to fight, knew what it would mean to surrender, knew he could not give up, knew he could not condemn these people to die. Everything he knew flew through his head, bouncing and rebounding, fighting and tumbling, over and over and over until he thought he would go made and over it all he heard a smooth voice saying, "Come, Ranger," and knew what his answer had to be. 

Without a word, he dropped the sword. It hissed as the sand enveloped its sharp blade. He could not bring himself to meet anyone's eyes as the Slyntari moved forward to bind his hands. He could barely stand his own. 

()()()()() 

The dark-haired elf trembled where he was tied. His rapid breath was uneven and labored. The sounds he made, once coherent if somewhat chopped phrases, were now unintelligible syllables. His eyes were covered in a persistent glaze, shifting restless and unfocused over things only he could see. A light sheen of sweat covered every inch of exposed flesh. He no longer responded to the lashes that drew red lines over his chest and arms. 

Were it not for the drugs, Torl knew, unconsciousness would have claimed him long ago. As it was, the elf's mind had retreated, unable to deal with the stress, and plunged him into a waking nightmare. They Slyntari captain could only guess at what horrors danced before the other's eyes. 

Reality would mix with memory, memory with fantasy, and the shades he created would be his demons until both body and drugs gave way, only to return when darkness no longer claimed all awareness. It would be a toss-up as to which would give way first: his body or his mind. _And a race to see if I can pry the information I need from his brain before either even occurs._

He watched narrowly as Nirt slashed the whip across his tortured frame three times in rapid succession. Blood welled from one line and dripped down his chest. Naught but a choke and wordless moan escaped his lips, and Torl could tell he no longer registered their questions. He knew Nirt could tell it, too, a fourth strike snapping hard around his waist. They would get no more from the creature tonight. 

"Nirt," he called calmly, his order in her name. She checked the next aggravated strike immediately and motioned to her helpers to do the same. His gaze remained locked on the elf's feverish blue eyes, studying, watching. . . . 

His eyes flickered to the torch holstered on the opposite wall, then back to the elf. Something he had noted earlier clicked into place and he narrowed his eyes as he stood. "Bring the torch," he ordered. 

Wordlessly, he was obeyed. The Slyntari trooped silently up the stairs, the torch lighting their path as they ascended. Four knocks echoed back to the cell, answered by the harsh clicks of locks springing open. The door opened and a purer light danced with that of fire in the small room at the bottom of the stairs. Then the door boomed shut and all light was extinguished. 

In the pitch black of starless night, Elladan moaned. 

()()()()() 

()()() 

()()()()() 

_Review Responses:_

**AM:** Only a _one_ month cliffie wait. See? Progress. :-D 

**Deana:** Thank you. 

**Veritas and Aequitas:** Don't you mean you'd like to kick the South Men? Ooh, Elladan is... Well, there's a little bit of him this chapter. A little more of him next chapter. And then... But that would be telling. :) 

**Cosmic Castaway:** Darn it! Caught! And here I was hoping I could fool you. Erm, could I borrow your knives? I think I have a use for them... I'll even sharpen 'em for you! No better deal than that. ;-) Is my life saved? 

**DeepBlueSomething:** I'll ne-ver te-elll.... Lol. So, now that you know the truth, are you disappointed? I'm glad you liked Elrohir; I had to rewrite that part because I felt he was too appathetic for an elf. They're so much more trouble than they're worth, elves-- it's a good thing they're so nice to look at. An interesting question... You'll just have to wait and see. :-D Em, poor Elrond. But he's outlived his usefulness. Maybe I should stop promising things; it always gets me in trouble when I do. But I shall endeavor to stay out of trouble. Your welcome, and thank you for reviewing. It's like waiting for Christmas, posting, because I always can't wait to get your reviews and see what you think. 

**Shadowfaxgal:** I can't talk for blushing. Not that blushing has anything to do with talking, but oh well. I'm thrilled beyond words that you're enjoying my little (actually, it's not little any more is it?) creation so much! I never dreamt anyone would like it enough to _re_read it. You've made my week! Your welcome and thanks! Muah! 

**Nerfenherder:** lol. I doubt my fellow Floridians are so willing, but it looks like we'll have to wait another year, regardless. I don't think you can expect your feet on the ground for quite some time. Cliffies are addictive once you get started! Besides, how else can I make sure you'll come back? Honestly, though, I don't think I could not end on a cliffie if I wanted to-- though next chapter is going to be about as close as you're going to get. The deep breath before the plunge, I think. Unless it changes on me. Hm, what do you think? Slyntari scary enough to turn his blood to ice? 


	21. Frustration

(Heh heh. Oops. Sorry 'bout that. In football, that would be called a 'false start.' That's what I get for putting elvish in without knowing the elvish words. I feel really stupid. (g) Let's try this again, shall we.) 

Wonder of wonders, I'm back. And it only took me nine extra days. (ducks rotten fruit and knives) Um, right. Spell checked, not beta'd, so if there are words that are spelled correctly but aren't the right word for the sentence, that's why. Funny things happen between my brain and my fingers and back again.

Anyway, there's possibly good news on the horizon. Whether it's better for me or you is up to debate. (g)

I'm gonna try very, very hard to get the next chapter up by the 11th. As I'm now working, I do'nt know if it will actually happen, but I am definitely going to try. (Actually, I'm gonna try for earlier than that, Christmas maybe, but don't hold your breath.)

A big thanks to Alina and Niniel for helping with some of the elvish. Couldn't have posted without them. Cheers, girls!

Now, fewer words are better, right? On with the chapter.

Oh, wait. Quick note: Blame Legolas. It's his fault this is late. Now, carry on.

**Chapter 21**

Nothing moved within the cavern's stone walls. No one noted the stillness. No one noted the silence. No one found it unsettling, but more than just cold stone lived inside the walls, even if such was not readily visible.

Pale flickering light danced over the stalagmites and stalactites which decorated the edges of the space. Like bars, they stood, yet nothing but hard rock lay beyond them and the exit stood clear. Shadows played about the corners of the cave but did not encroach upon the center. No shade approached the stone altar nor extended a finger towards the crystal pool that lay near it.

It was before the former that the only life could be found. Dressed in dark robes, a man stood with his hands braced against the lip of the basin sat atop the altar. No twitch betrayed his life; no breath broke his stillness. More rock than flesh, he appeared, so that he seemed naught but an exquisitely carved statue but for his eyes. Cold, they were, as death, but not dead.

Light sparkled within their obsidian depths, betraying a life the body denied-- a life without warmth or compassion that promised nothing but pain and sorrow. Life, they held, but nothing of the man they claimed. Liquid and implacable, they reflected what they saw even as a deep pool with nothing to stir its waters.

They studied the shallow pool, unblinking, looking past the basin's bottom into a new world, though none could tell what they saw. They held no thoughts, and the man's face held no emotion.

Long moments passed, each identical to the last, seeming to have no beginning and no end, then Perego moved. His hands dropped to his side and fire swirled through his dark eyes, extinguished as quickly as it had come. "You seek to play with me," he murmured, his eyes focused on something only he could see, seeming to look through the walls. The water rippled slightly as he suddenly left, then smoothed to stillness, naught but the basin visible beneath its surface.

The sorceror strode the length of the dark tunnels with the powerful air of a king marching to war, his long robes making his appear to glide. None he passed opposed him and he paid them no mind. His steps never faltered; his eyes never strayed from his target. Slaves and Slyntari alike moved out of his way until he came upon one who paid no more attention to the bustle of activity than he did. There, he stopped, his mirrored eyes fixed upon the lone individual who deigned to ignore him.

The young captain glanced at him uncertainly, his gaze flickering between his lord and the conjurer, but he kept speaking. Perego cared not.

"Most find it unwise to cross a sorceror, Lord Shirk," he commented, his voice low. The captain had stopped speaking when he opened his mouth, and now the elf waved him away. The young man departed with a quick bow and a furtive glance. "I would have thought one of the Eldar would have more sense."

Shirk did not turn face him immediately, instead looking over the camp. His voice even, he said, "It is not my sense you should question, but your vision."

"The water's do not lie!" Perego hissed.

"Do they not?" the elf replied disdainfully, finally turning to face the sorceror. "What truth did you see that leads you to believe I have betrayed you?"

"You were supposed to consult me before making any alterations to our plan."

The elf raised a fair eyebrow. "Funny. I do not recall that being part of our agreement."

"It was understood, Elf. A higher power than you ordained this partnership; you would do well to remember that and hold to certain obligations."

Shirk's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"

The sorceror nodded, a malicious glint in his eye. "It is, indeed. It would be a shame, after all, if some of your men were mistaken for the enemy. They might find it rather difficult to do your bidding if they can't see their target."

The elf's eyes narrowed further, but that as the only evidence of his displeasure. "Most unpleasant," he agreed. "But you still have yet to cite the basis for your protest."

"Do not play dumb, Shirk. Inarguably suited for it though you are, it does not become you."

"Be careful, sorceror," the blond hissed lethally, "lest you outlive your usefulness." He had killed men for less, and he would kill this one too, orders or not, if Perego did not learn to hold his tongue.

A realization the man had made long ago. "I do not appreciate others going behind my back," he countered softly, almost pleasantly. "There was no need to send a larger contingent after the Ranger. He would have come to us, just as we planned."

"And he will still come to us," Shirk answered, his calm restored. "Was the attack successful?"

"I know not." Perego clasped his hands behind his back. "It is quite difficult to judge success, after all, when one does not know the goal."

"Do they have the Ranger?" Impatience tinged the fair being's voice.

The sorceror inclined his head slightly. "Both the Ranger and the Elf are in their possession."

"Good," Shirk dismissed. He turned away without further comment.

The other watched him go. "You will not dismiss me so easily, my lord," he whispered. "When this is over, _I_ shall be the one to dismiss _you_." He turned away abruptly and returned to his cavern abode without sparing another glance for his surroundings. He had plans to make . . . and a ranger to watch.

_Wind whipped in his face, cold and biting. Two sets of hooves thundered in his ears. Trees flashed past, blurry from tears that stung his eyes. Urgency coursed through him accompanied by a familiar hate that burned through his veins._

_Orcs. He was hunting orcs._

_Elrohir twisted to look behind him, one hand twisted in his horse's mane. His hair lashed his face, but there, slightly behind him on his left, rode Elladan. Their eyes met. A persistent ache he had been unable to identify eased with the contact. He was not alone; all was as it should be. That relief curled through him, washing away his fear. He turned forward._

_Pain suddenly exploded across his back. Propelled forward, he tumbled from his steed's back and rolled across the ground. Roots dug into his back like sharp fingers, poking and jabbing. A horse whinnied in distress somewhere behind him. Bewildered alarm shot through him. _How did the Orcs get behind us?

_He came up on his feet with sword drawn and ready, his eyes searching his surroundings. Orcs encompassed him. His brother stood ready at his side, battered and disheveled, but there. A gash split his forehead, dripping blood into his eyes; Elladan did not seem to notice._

_Then the orcs attacked. His blade slashed, singing through the air with the fervor of his assault, ringing shrilly with every strike and parry, competing with the growls and grunts of his enemy. They swirled through his ears, merging with the _thump-thump, thump-thump _that dominated everything. Desperation fueled his attacks, cutting down each beast that appeared before him. They fell like grain at harvest, but more always came. They blocked out everything, even the light, and darkness encompassed him as he lost sight of his brother._

_Back, in the recesses of his mind, he screamed for his twin, searched helplessly for evidence he could not find to know that the other was well. He was reaching out for him, stretching his hand out into the darkness, calling for him . . . but nobody answered, and nobody took his hand._

_His eyes were wide in the darkness. He fought in an inky tide, filled only with the foul bodies of orcs, alive and dead, pressing towards him to end his life, strike after strike. His entire being went to defense as seconds stretched into minutes stretched into hours stretched into days, with his arms swinging, his feet moving, his heart pounding, his breath gasping--_

_In an empty, gray void._

_Elrohir stumbled forward, surprised by the sudden absence of enemy, feeling strangely bereft as his eyes searched the rock walls around him. Had he not been in a forest? He blinked, bemused, as his eyes flickered over the small cavern he found himself within. A familiar cavern, with unevenly hewn walls, but he could not place it in his mind._

_"Where. . . ?" The sound of his own voice surprised him, echoing off the unfeeling stone and pressing upon his ears. His feet scraped across the ground as he spun in a circle, confronted with the same gray with every step. "Elladan?" he called. The walls bounced it back, mocking, his own panic flung back in his face. "Elladan!"_

_No voice answered but his own. No one moved but himself. His heart beat faster, threatening to pound its way from his breast. He turned faster, hoping beyond hope that Elladan was playing with him, that he was staying behind him and if he moved fast enough, he would be able to catch him. The world spun dizzyingly. "El!"_

_"He is not here, my son."_

_He tripped trying to whirl towards the voice, landing on his back with a painful _thud._ He barely noticed as his eyes landed on the being who had spoken, a slender figure he had not seen in more than four hundred years._

_"Nana."_

She paced around the rocky mound Elrohir rested against with the silent stalk of a hunter, fighting the restlessness that always sought to claim her whenever she was forced to linger, doing nothing, when there was plenty to do.

Avoiding the brush that might give her away almost by habit now, Kalya passed out of sight of her elven companion and looked to the trees. That, too, was little more than habit, for whatever creatures had once lived in these lands had long since fled the growing darkness. To find wildlife, one would either need to go further south or cross the mountains. The Slyntari, themselves, would not find them for hours yet.

A cursory glance to the west (revealing more dead trees) brought her back to the lake. She frowned at its still surface but did not approach, her steps-- like her gaze-- straying towards the prone elf. He was almost bearable when asleep, she decided, but the jittery frustration caused by his silent company was little improvement over the simmering irritation of his waking company. Still, she did not pause there, either, continuing on to complete the circuit and follow it again.

The Slyntari would not find them for hours yet, and the trees were just as she had last seen them. The soil held her footprints, and she trace them around the bend where she found the lake. She might have guessed it would be the same, but she was trying so hard not to think that it had not crossed her mind. And Elrohir slept on, easy as you please.

She looked away, jerking her eyes from the thin form, and found herself staring at the White Mountains without really seeing them. Unbidden, the question she had been avoiding popped into her head: _What am I doing here?_

The girl stopped as suddenly as if the ground had dropped away before her. The question was like a blow to the head and left her stunned. What was she doing? She knew better than most what happened to those foolish enough to cross the Slyntari, and hers was even doubled, having not only escaped them but betrayed them. Such considerations, she knew, was precisely why she had been avoiding the question even before she had turned around to chase after an angry elven brother.

Whatever had possessed her to come back?

_I knew I should have killed Strider when I had the chance._

Kalya winced at the thought and started walking again, her steps almost tentative. That was something Kelt would have said, and she had thought the other died when she opposed Shirk for Strider's life. Now she wondered if that was true-- and knew it was not. It was more than just a little discomforting to realize a truth she had clung to for the last year not only was a lie but had always been a lie.

Her mind wondered back. Almost before her eyes, she could see "Kalya" taking form as "Kelt" failed, her natural inclination towards defiance latching onto the Ranger as a buffer when her world began falling apart; it was easier. Scared, she had sought to delay punishment, hiding-- even in her mind-- behind a change of heart. And Strider had talked of starting over, being free. She had expected death; when death did not come, had she allowed herself to believe Kalya lived and, somehow, Kelt died?

_Easier,_ her mind whispered in answer. Then her own voice echoed back to her, condemning: _"It's never that easy."_

Again she stopped, her feet acting separate from her brain, and she found the lake before her. A deep blue several shades darker than the winter sky, its surface lay undisturbed. From where she stood, she could just make out the silvery reflections of trees on its mirror-like surface. she could imagine young maidens looking into its depths, eager to see their beauty reflected back at them, and wondered uneasily what she would see if she chanced a look.

_Who wears my face? Kelt or Kalya?_

_For a moment, he could not move, could not even breathe. Some manic dwarf had come up unnoticed and socked him in the gut, stolen the air from his lungs. His eyes wide, he felt himself slide back hundreds of years. His heart filled and broke all over again._

_"Nana?" he tried again, crawling to her side. He reached out to her, but could not bring himself to touch her, for fear that she would break. Tall and thin, Celebrían had always looked delicate but for the strength that burned in her eyes, belying that weakness. To see her now, battered and bruised, her golden hair matted and clumped and that zest for life all but gone from her crystal gaze, it was more than he could bear. "Nana, please."_

_Slowly, the impossibly pale face moved, lifting pain darkened eyes to rest on his face, their blue depths all but alien to his searching gaze. "You should not have come," she breathed, her lips barely moving. Blood crusted the left side of her mouth._

_He shook his head quickly. "We could not leave you to the Orcs, Nana. We would not. Now, be strong and full of hope; we have come to save you."_

_"It is too late for me, my son."_

_"No," he denied, his heart breaking afresh at hearing her words of defeat. "No, we'll take you home. Ada will heal you. He will save you."_

_She chuckled, a soft, weary sound, and in it he could hear her acceptance of her fate. "Oh, Elrohir . . . so stubborn, just like your father." Her hand brushed his cheek and he caught it in his own, refusing to let it fall. Tears trickled slowly towards her fingers. "You should be protecting Elladan now."_

_"He will be along soon," Elrohir assured. "I need to get you back to Ada."_

_"I am already lost to you."_

_The younger twin ignored his mother's words even as they slashed deeply into him and shifted closer to lift her into his arms. She felt light as an elfling and impossibly frail. Fear followed the pain, but he turned towards the entrance, determined to get her to his father before her dire predictions could come true. He steadfastly ignored the whispers that told him he had already failed._

_He stopped before he had gone two feet. Wood _thunked_ under his boots. Water crashed rhythmically beneath him as it rushed towards shore, hindered only by the dock upon which he stood. His eyes rested, unbelieving, upon a ship, its great masts stretched towards the sky._

_"So stubborn," a voice whispered regretfully. A soft hand caressed his cheek._

_He glanced quickly to the side and found his mother staring back at him. Starting in surprise, he looked down at his arms, but they were empty, his mother's broken form no longer held within them. Confused eyes returned to his mother's gaze._

_Celebrían smiled wanly at him as she stepped backwards, closer to the ship, all signs of abuse gone from her face save for the shadows that still haunted her eyes. The edges of her white gown danced about her legs in the warm ocean breeze. Her gray traveling cloak draped off thin shoulders, and the hood covered her golden hair. Knowledge of what was happening struck him the same instant he knew where he was._

_"Nana, don't go!" he pleaded abruptly, attempting to rush forward._

_She stopped him with an upraised hand. His legs refused to move. "I am lost to you," she said._

_He shook his head helplessly, unable to speak the words that choked his throat as tears slipped down his cheeks. Helpless. Hopeless. His mother had decided. All that pain, all that heartache, all the effort and sacrifice-- all for nothing. The orcs could not have taken anything more precious._

_"You should have gone after your brother."_

_Confused, he opened pain-filled eyes to look at her, intending to ask what she meant. Elladan was here, with him, just like always. Not once in the last year had they been separated._

_But she was gone._

_His words died on his lips. A hole had opened up inside him and the ocean breeze whistled forlornly through his heart. Desperately, his eyes searched the space before him and found naught but air. He turned, thinking maybe she had slipped away to talk to his father or sister, or brother, but the beach was empty. No one stood there._

_"Nana?" he called shakily. The cry vanished on the wind. No one was here. Not his mother, not his father, not his sister or brother. He turned full circle, but sand stretched as far as he could see. They were gone. Pain and fear mingled inside him. With one voice, heart and mind cried out for the one person he had always known would be with him._

_"El!"_

For a long moment, she stood frozen, afraid to walk forward and see Kelt reflected back from within her eyes. And she could not figure out why.

Why, when she had been Kelt all her known life, should she fear such a discovery? Why, when she had always abhorred her elven name, would she strive to cling to it? Why, when she had never desired to be anything more or different than her birth had ordained, did she suddenly want nothing more to do with it? Why, in seemingly the blink of an eye, had everything changed?

But even as she asked, she knew the answer, and it all came down to one person: Strider.

_Why, though?_

She shook her head and started walking briskly again, ignoring the lake's edge and passing Elrohir without a glance. It did not matter who she was, nor why she was who she was or how she had become that person. She was herself and that was all that mattered. If she chose to be known as Kalya over Kelt, it was her business. Names were just show, something presented to the world at large to let others hang their expectations and preconceptions. None of it mattered.

_Then why won't you look at your reflection?_

Abruptly, she stopped, more than just a little surprised to find herself, once more, at the lake. She glanced behind her, as if expecting to see the lake just behind her, then turned back. _There's no point,_ she answered silently.

_There's no harm,_ the voice countered reasonably.

_That's not a reason to do something,_ she thought back testily.

The reply was smug: _No, but it begs the question why you won't._

For long moments, she remained silent and unmoving. The barest hint of a breeze stirred the air around her, cooling her skin. Slowly, she shook her head. "It doesn't matter." _It's never mattered._

She did not need that annoying little voice to tell her that was not true, but she could not block the voice from her mind when it whispered, _Then why does it haunt you so?_

The girl sighed. Less than a dozen feet before her the water was still flawless but she turned away to continue her circuit. Blue eyes tracked automatically to Elrohir-- and caught. A slight frown pinched her brow as she was suddenly reminded of Strider. His face flashed before her eyes-- sheened with sweat, his eyes closed, lips pressed in a tight line. Distress radiated from every line of his face, and she could almost hear his ragged, jerky breathing. But why--

She killed the thought and resumed her trek. Strider was not here; and whatever the similarities between him and the elf, Elrohir was no Strider. The human was far away from here and her task was to save the elder twin-- not compare the younger with his foster brother.

Her eyes skipped through the open spaces left by brittle tree trunks, but the gesture was fruitless; the Slyntari would not find their impromptu camp for another couple of hours at least. By the time they realized their people were missing and tracked them down, their prey would have moved on. _But it never hurts to be cautious when dealing with the Slyntari_, she finished, looking towards the distant camp that even the sharpest elf's eyes would never be able to see. _Even if you are on a suicide mission._

Suicide. Disgust churned her stomach.

Why was she here? Why should she risk her life for some stupid elven prat? She owed him nothing, owed his brother nothing but a round kick up his arse. What was she doing? What, in all of Arda, had possessed her to come back when she was home free? Isildur's heir could almost expect a kinder welcome than she was going to receive.

_Isildur's heir. . . ._

But, no-- she did not owe him, either. If anything, he owed her. She had freed him from the Slyntari. She had risked mortal injury to let him escape. She had led him safely through the mountains. She had kept the darkness from claiming him. She had neutralized the poison. And what did he do? Ruin her life.

_But was it the life you wanted?_

Not the least bit pleased, Kalya looked up and stopped. When she had started walking again, she could not say, but her circuit had carried her once more to water's edge. She frowned at the innocent water, but resignation tugged at her. _What could it hurt, really?_

Still reluctant, her steps were tentative as she edged closer to the water. It sparkled cheerily in the light from the morning sun. Her expression, however, suggested she expected the clear liquid to jump up and bite her any second. She watched the mud squelch under her boots, then dropped into a crouch. Her weight sent tiny ripples out over the surface and she watched them for a moment, trying to come up with an answer to a question she did not know.

Finally, she sighed. _Procrastinating accomplishes nothing. _Bracing her head lightly against the ground, she leaned forward.

_"Elladan! Brother!" The words vanished into the distance and he dropped to his knees in sudden weariness. "I need you," he finished, his voice barely a whisper._

_Gone was the sea that had taken his mother. Gone were the warm sea breezes that seemed determined to ease your sorrow. Gone was the repetitive crash of wave upon shore. All that remained was the sand, stretching towards the horizon as far as his elf eyes could see. "Brother!" he yelled again._

_At first, nothing happened, nothing changed, then his eyes caught sight of something dark on the horizon. Little more than a black smudge on tan sands, he nevertheless started crawling towards it. Cool sand splashed over his hands and between his fingers. His eyes remained fixed on that single spot. A part of him feared that if he looked away, it would vanish. And as it grew larger, that feeling grew in tandem with his hope._

_Seconds flew by as he closed the distance between himself and the lump. Excitement bubbled up within him; he just knew it would be Elladan. Probably, his brother was sleeping, and he would be able to tease him mercilessly for his poor hearing. His focus narrowed until the still body was his only goal. He barely noticed as his surroundings shifted around him, as the light faded to darkness and the sand became stone. All that mattered was that he reach his brother._

_"Elladan!" he breathed as he gained his brothers side. He recognized his brother's dark hair, and his relief was palpable. His hand found the slight figure's shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The dark cloak fell away, disappearing into the ground beneath him, and Elrohir gasped._

_Cuts and welts, all flaming red, marred his brother's pale chest. Bruises decorated his arms and speckled his face and chest. Glazed blue eyes stared emptily into space. Were it not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Elladan could have been dead. Blood covered Elrohir's fingers as they grazed the wounds._

_"Speak to me, brother!" he commanded, feeling his heart crumble into millions of pieces, and his hope collapse in upon itself. What had happened? Why had he not been there? Had his mother been right? He should have been with Elladan. What if his brother died? He had already lost Nana, he could not lose Elladan, too. "Brother. Please. . . ."_

_He got no reaction. His hands wandered helplessly over the elder twin's prone form. Tears gathered in his eyes as the depth of his failure set in, and the weight of it threatened to crush him. "What did they do to you?" His voice cracked and blood suddenly started flowing from Elladan's mouth. Panic flashed through him._

_"No! Somebody, help!" In desperation, he looked up, searching out anyone who could give him aid, but no one was there. _

_And when he looked back down, Elladan was gone._

"El!"

Kalya jerked back and around, nearly dumping herself in the lake. Her eyes wide, her hand went automatically to her knife as she scanned the area. About the time her eyes landed on Elrohir, her mind caught up with what had been said: 'El.'

Equal parts relieved and irritated (and more than just a little embarrassed at being taken unawares), the girl shot to her feet. She studied the dark-haired elf closely as she approached. His eyes were bare slits, the lids covering all but a dash of white, and she could see them darting back and forth quickly. His body was taut and tension pinched his face. The barest hint of a frown creased his brow. His lips moved and she fancied she heard "brother" in the indistinct muttering that followed.

_Nightmare_, she realized, and suddenly understood why Strider had come to mind when she had last looked at him. Now that she knew what she was looking for, the signs had been obvious, but she did not move immediately.

Surprise at finding an elf trapped in a nightmare held her in place. She had always been taught elves could control their dreams, and never had she known another elf to suffer night terrors. Her own tendency towards nightmares, she had always attributed to her human father. _But maybe. . . . _

She shook her head clear of such thoughts and knelt at the other's side. For a moment, she hesitated, then put her hand on his should and shook him gently. They could not risk alerting the Slyntari to their presence with his shouts.

His eyes flew open. Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, wrenched her around, and slammed her against the wall, pinning her firmly in place and-- somehow-- coming up with her dagger. Again. Startled by his reaction, she forgot to resist and only stared wide-eyed into wild blue ones.

"What are you doing?" he demanded sharply. Not entirely sure he was aware, she did not answer, but he shook her slightly, clipping the back of her head against stone. "Answer me, spawn of Mordor!"

"Waking you, dimwit!" she sputtered, tensing against the pain. "Watch who you're talking to!"

"I know who I'm talking to," he hissed, pressing the dagger close to her neck. His eyes snapped fire, sparking dangerously, but completely lucid. "I don't suffer betrayal from anyone. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slit your throat right now."

Kalya bristled at his words, but she was unsettled enough by her situation and earlier thoughts that she could not muster the confidence necessary for defiance as the blade of her own dagger pressed a cold line against her throat. "I saved your life," she bit out. "Your gratitude leaves much to be desired."

Something flashed through his eyes, too nebulous to identify, but though he shoved her harder against the stone, the knife withdrew. "Congratulations, traitor. You live to try again." He backed away, tossing the blade, and she moved forward cautiously in his wake.

While he paced towards the lake, she remained crouched, watching, and idly resheathed her dagger. Anger and resentment curled through her, and both emerged in her voice. "Why don't you just keep the dagger if you like it so much?"

Elrohir ignored her question, but turned back to face her. Six feet lay between them. "Why did you come back?"

"My reasons are my own," she snapped. It was the height of injustice that he should expect answers she would not give herself.

His eyes narrowed. "'Not for all the gold and jewels on Arda,'" he quoted back to her. "Yet here you are. I've a right to know what you're planning."

She brushed loose strands of hair out of her face and fixed him with an insolent stare. "I had 'planned' on helping you free your brother, but if you'd rather just get yourself killed, be my guest."

"I can still slit your throat, brat," he responded distastefully. "But I don't see any gold or jewels, so again I ask-- why?"

"I changed my mind."

An eyebrow climbed towards his hairline. "Changed your mind?" he echoed, disbelieving.

"Yes," she affirmed. "And a good thing, too, as you obviously don't possess all the riches or Arda."

Something shifted in his gaze, but though she could see it, she could not even begin to decipher what it meant. He folded his arms across his chest. "I was under the impression you wouldn't help even then," the elf observed silkily.

To that, she had no answer, and could not come up with a deflection that sounded even halfway credible to her own ears. So she did not try. Her voice was cold as she said, "If you'd rather, I can leave."

Instead of sending her away immediately as she had expected, the dark-haired elf surprised her again by remaining silent. Dark blue eyes studied her with an intensity she found disconcerting and a thoughtfulness previously unseen on this trip. What he was searching for, she could not imagine, but she met his gaze stubbornly and refused to let herself consider the consequences of his decision, whatever that would be. She wished she knew what was going through his head.

Finally, he nodded. Whether it was because he found what he was looking for or had merely come to a conclusion, she could not tell, and his words did not help. "My father believes in seconds chances," he announced. "Maybe this is yours." He sounded neither hopeful nor convinced, but he made no further objection.

She watched him walk to the lake and splash water over his face with a feeling of dislocation. No matter what she had expected his answer to be, she had expected it would be more decisive; clear cut. Now that it was done it seemed . . . anticlimactic. She sighed. _Elves. . . ._

Deciding the best thing to do was not think about it, she stood and retrieved her pack from the crevice she had hidden it in. Wordlessly, she pulled out their rations and passed Elrohir his share once he turned back. They ate across from each other, though not quite facing, a charged silence hanging between them almost like static. She stared into the distance, purposely taking no notice of Elrohir's contemplative frown nor his infrequent glances, trying not to think and finding more success than she had previously.

The waybread they ate was hard and crunched as she chewed, sort of like eating gravel. If it had a taste she did not notice, her mind too distant. Some had said it tasted like dirt; others claimed it lacked only the smell of dung. Kalya decided it also lacked the correct texture. A strange and distorted mixture of cram and lembas that Shirk had dreamed up, it possessed the lone redeeming qualities of keeping for weeks and being more nutritious than it was harmful. Many would have preferred straight cram. If Elrohir was one of them, he did not show it.

"How far is the camp?" he asked abruptly near the end of their meal. He stared into the east, a distant look in his sharp eyes.

"About a day's walk," the girl answered after a beat, uncertain as to the wisdom of her answer, so she added, "Give or take."

He nodded. "Then we can be at the southeastern border by nightfall."

"We can," she agreed hesitantly. "But we'll be no closer to saving your brother."

He looked at her and his eyes narrowed. "We were held near the south east, were we not?"

"Aye," she said, "but where you were and where he is are two separate matters. Upon recapturing Elladan, he would not have replaced him in the same cell."

"Where, then?" pressed the elf testily.

Again, she hesitated. "More north-west, I think," she answered slowly. "Possibly somewhere with a door-- there are several-- or possibly even in the mountains. There are tunnels enough to rival those riddling the Misty Mountains and empty chambers in equal measure."

He muttered something derogatory then fixed her with a piercing look. "Do you know them?"

She caught herself before she could say "no" and ventured a tentative: "I have walked them once before."

His eyes narrowed, the only visible reaction to her statement and pressed, "But you could find your way."

"I could lead you in and back out again from nearly any point, but correctly guessing where Shirk might have placed an elven prisoner based on my memory alone would be all but impossible."

"Then we will hope he is not being held within the mountains." Elrohir stared at her intently. For a moment, in which her heart raced, she believed he was going to confront her about her past, but he did not.

Apparently, having made the decision to trust her to help him save his brother meant he was not going to concern himself with her past beyond what was relevant. That, or he did not trust himself to delve too deeply without losing control and had decided not to risk it until he had saved his brother. Either way, she doubted it would last beyond completion of the mission-- if it lasted that long.

"Can we reach the cells from the southeast?"

"Perhaps," she answered, snapping back to the moment. "But it would be better if we didn't have to traverse the whole camp to get there. the longer we're inside, the greater the chances they'll find us, and we won't be able to walk around in hooded semi-anonymity this time."

"Why not?"

"They'll be on code alert. Anyone wearing a hood would automatically be deemed hostile."

He remained silent and Kalya watched him with the kind of open stare that suggested attentiveness and actually served to cover the fact that she was not, in fact, paying much attention. She could feel the beginnings of fatigue pulling at her, nibbling at her thoughts, and wondered (rather futilely) if she should not have taken the opportunity to sleep herself.

"You think, then," Elrohir interrupted, "that we should approach from the mountains."

"That's right."

"I came in by the mountains." He managed to make it sound like a casual stroll through a peaceful vale. "There's little to no cover to be had that way."

"There are some tunnels we could use to travel unseen."

He nodded slowly. "How long would that add to travel time?"

She tried to picture it in her head. "Another day, maybe two. Possibly more. A lot of it depends on how far to the south we skirt camp."

"How far do you suggest?"

The question caught her by surprise and she hesitated over the answer. Either his brief rest had accomplished more than she had expected or something else had happened about which she was unaware. She did not like the uncertainty; but then, there was little about this situation she did like.

"I would say a league, at least, but a mile beyond the tree line would probably suffice."

He watched her a moment with a closed expression. Only long experience with such looks kept her from squirming and announcing her discomfort, kept her from dropping her eyes. Uneasily, she wondered what he read in her gaze and if he saw her uncertainty. But he just nodded. "For now, we'll head west. I'll decide our approach before we come upon the camp."

Kalya followed soundlessly when the elf put the sun to his back and started walking, offering neither comment nor protest. Elrohir seemed more at ease than he had previously-- he was certainly calmer; yet she could not help but feel disconcerted at the sudden change. It was suspicious. And, she could not help but wonder if she was compounding her mistake with Strider-- and if this third time, Shirk would finally get it right.

Legolas twisted his hands, surreptitiously testing his bonds. The ropes dug harder into his skin but-- just like the other dozen times he had tried-- the knots did not budge. He winced as they were yanked suddenly forward.

The elf looked up and glared at the man next to Ardevui. The human was too busy glaring at the horse to notice, but he did not use the whip again and, after only a moment, moved off again. Angry blue eyes followed him through the caravan then watched him take up post on the edge of the group near a different horse. That horse snorted at his arrival and laid his ears back but kept his peace.

His tension eased, the Mirkwood archer scanned the rest of the group. Numbering more than fifty, they were an impressive group. There was a guard for every one of the two dozen Rohirrim that had been captured and a dozen more besides. The three Aragorn had noticed led the procession, riding easily abreast. The children, both girls and boys under the age of sixteen, were kept closet to them, bound in groups of five and six to a horse. The women, most of them still young, came next. Behind them were the men, their groups smaller or children. Abyl had been placed with them.

The young man looked even younger than usual placed among men several years his senior. His eyes were wide and frightened and he looked stunned, like he did not quite know what had happened. The man he was tethered with had made no effort to comfort him, starring stonily ahead, and the elf wished he was close enough to try. As it stood, he could not even offer him assuring words lest it bring the Slyntari down upon the others.

Legolas' lips tightened in anger, compressing to a thin line. He felt so helpless! His hands twisted again in their bonds. He wished they had fought, that they had not capitulated without a struggle, that more of the enemy had fallen before they were subdued. He wished Aragorn had not--

But his keen eyes landed on the young ones at the front of the caravan and killed the thought before it could be completed. Guilt prickled uneasily at the edges of his mind. He knew Aragorn could not have done anything different-- knew he would have done the same thing if it had been up to him.

He closed his eyes and let the ropes pull him forwards. In the tranquility behind his closed lids, he tried to still his frustration, both with his captors and with himself. Neither was helpful-- not to himself, his friend, or their fellow captives.

He tried to picture it as a storm-- the clouds dark and menacing, the wind howling between tall trees, rain pelting the ground, whirling . . . and slowly willed it to die down, soothing the wind as one would a wounded animal, stopping the rain as with a new-built dam raised piece by piece, gradually breaking up the clouds until they were small and benign, and as the tempest eased so did his temper. For a moment, he was left in the calm he had created.

Then concern flowed in to replace his agitation, washing over him like a cresting wave, unhindered by the anger that had blunted it from his conscious mind. Concern for his friend.

Opening his eyes, the elf glanced sideways at his companion. Aragorn was bound similarly to himself, but the ranger had made no effort to test his bonds. His head was bent, his eyes downcast, and his mouth firmly closed. Since being captured, he had not uttered a sound and only once looked back.

His profile did not readily show more than a grim-faced ranger, but Legolas did not need to see more. He had seen all he needed when the man looked back and saw the flames leap from the roofs in the village had had hoped to spare. Those dark, haunted eyes were not ones he would soon forget. He had seen them too often. Each time they broke his heart anew.

Legolas glanced around, but no one was watching them. Cautiously, he let his steps carry him closer to the ranger, slowly closing the distance between them until their shoulders almost brushed. He looked around again, but interest had not shifted. He watching the other, he called softly, "Strider."

No reaction.

A Slyntari moved at the corner of his eyes, but the man was just urging his horse forward to ride with one of his companions. The elf dismissed him out of hand and turned his attention back to the human beside him. "Strider, answer me," he pleaded, his voice low. "Estel!"

A shudder worked down the man's frame and he looked away. Legolas frowned. Whatever he had expected, he had not expected Aragorn would act like this.

"Estel, look at me ," he commanded. "Yeeta nín," he repeated more forcefully when the other did not react, but he did not wait for his compliance. "This is not your fault, mellon nin. There is nothing you could have done differently. You did all you could."

_That_ got a reaction. "What if all you can do isn't enough?" Aragorn's voice was so soft his words seemed to fade into the very air around them; but Legolas caught them, and his heart wrenched at the pain he heard.

"This isn't the end, Estel. Toltham gwanyr-lín," he assured earnestly, willing the words to penetrate the ranger's head. "We will save your brothers."

"Save them?" Aragorn echoed doubtfully. Slowly, he shook his head, still not looking at his friend. "No. Not all who enter will come out again."

"You don't know that, Strider," Legolas countered. "Everyone will be fine. You'll see."

Silver eyes darkened by shadow turned to him but they did not see him. The ranger was watching something only he could see. "What if the only way to save them is to sacrifice Isildur's heir?"

Legolas stared at his friend and felt the seconds mount, but his mind would not translate what he had just heard. It was like listening to a language he only knew partially, the words he did catch not making any sense. when they finally clicked, he blanched.

"No!" he yelped, louder than he had intended. A couple looked their way, but none of them said anything and he ignored them. "No," he repeated more quietly, though the word lost none of its edge. "Don't even think that. You must believe we'll find a way. Strider-- Estel: you must believe we will be able to save them."

"The Slyntari do not let people escape." His expression had not changed: flat, implacable.

"You did," Legolas pointed out.

Again, the human shook his head. "That was luck. That was Elladan and Elrohir coming to rescue me and Kalya fight to save me. And they were not captured, defenseless, before they arrived."

To that, he had no real answer. "Mellon nin, I know the way looks dark, but I refuse to give up. I will not surrender before the challenge has begun. What have you told me? 'Where there is life, there is hope'." He watched Aragorn closely. "I need you to hope with me, mellon nin. I cannot do it on my own. I cannot lose you."

"You have not lost me."

"Haven't I?" Legolas burst, some of his distress creeping into his voice. "The same shadow darkens your heart as when you arrived in Mirkwood, and you will not look at me! What has happened if I have not lost you?"

Aragorn's gaze shifted forward, resting somewhere about Ardevui's rear though he no more saw it than the had truly seen Legolas. "Shirk seeks Isildur's heir," he murmured, soft enough that only his friend had any hope of hearing him, and even for his elven ears it was difficult. "I know it. He thinks the twins know, or I know, and will certainly do everything within his power to learn his identity. _My_ identity.

"What if I am not strong enough? What if he torture's the twins and I betray my secret, betray their trust? I have no faith I would escape alive, but I would die with my shame to be tormented with my own weakness for eternity. Yet even knowing this, I cannot swear my silence to keep. My own pain means little, but I do not think I could bear theirs. Or yours."

"It would be difficult," Legolas agreed softly, his own sadness coloring his tone. "But do not think your would be any easier to bear. Your brothers would rather die a thousand times over than be responsible for your death." He trailed off, searching his mind for something more that might help. "Let their silence guide you, my friend. Match their fortitude with your own. You are stronger than you think.

Aragorn looked at him. Hooded silver eyes met blue. "Forgive me, mellon nin. I should not have bothered you so."

"Nay!" the elf denied. "You should and more besides. How else am I to help bear your burden?"

"It is mine to bear."

"Stubborn Dúnadain," he chided irritably. "I am your friend! It is no burden to me to share your troubles."

A somewhat wry smile lifted the corners of his lips. "I should've known my words would come back to haunt me."

Legolas smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I'm glad you're here, my friend."

"And?"

"And. . . ." The ranger looked at him, his eyes skimming his face, and frowned. "Who gave you that?" His hands tried to drift to Legolas' left cheek but the ropes stopped them before they could get close.

The elf's own hands continued the track but they, too, were stopped before they could complete their journey. In his mind's eye, he could see his friend hovering over him, his bound fists swinging down to smash his face, a determined light in his eyes. He supposed he should find it disturbing that his own friend could attack him so fiercely, but he knew what it had to do to his friend and he had a different perspective: it told him Aragorn was strong enough to do what he needed to do, regardless of what he wanted to do. Now, if only he could convince the ranger.

He was still smiling slightly when he answered. "You did."

Aragorn's jaw dropped and his eyes widened, but even as he looked ready to protest, realization stole over his face, returning the shadow that had only recently fled. His mouth moved, but his mind did not appear to be capable of formulating a response.

Legolas jumped in before that could change. "Don't apologize," he warned quickly.

"But--"

"No." The elf shook his head. "If a bruise is the price of escape, I pay it gladly."

"But it was not. It failed."

"Actually, it worked," he countered patiently. "Were it not for the Slyntari, it would have worked very well, I think." He paused, thinking. "Next time, I think I'd like to be the one to hit you, though."

"'Next time,' he says," Aragorn said to an unknown third party with a wan, somewhat sick smile. "I just don't know what to do with him."

"Strider!" he protested indignantly.

The human flashed him a bright smile. His eyes sparkled with mirth. Yet Legolas could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Aragorn was performing for his benefit.

"Hey! No talking!"

A whip flashed between them and drew a line across the ranger's arm. The man hissed and both shifted sideways to put more space between them but the guard remained too close for even near-silent conversation.

Legolas looked at Aragorn helplessly, wishing to say more, wishing he could draw his friend further from the shell he had created, banish the darkness, but he could not risk bringing punishment down on his friend or any of the innocents around them. He had to hold his tongue.

Knowing his thoughts, the ranger flashed him a reassuring smile, his expression light. But the longer they traveled in silence, the further the man slipped away, his expression darkening with the weight of his thoughts. And Legolas did not know what to do. He feared, once again, that he was losing his friend.

()()()()() 

Please note: Toltham gwanyr-lín actually translates "We will get your brothers," but Tolkien apparently didn't think anyone would need to be 'saved' so I couldn't find the correct word. Get, in this instance is closer than 'protect' so that's what I chose. Just for your information.

_Review responses:_

**Deana: **Oops. (looks sheepish) Sorry. I'm glad you're still enjoying it, though.

**AM:** Breathe! It's here. Hopefully not too late. Glad you liked the fight scenes. We're taking a break from them. There might or might not be another one in the next chapter. Hope you enjoy this one!

**Grumpy:** Hmm. Well, I'll certainly take it under consideration. (g) I hope you got feeling back!

**DeepBlueSomething:** I can't tell you. But you make very interesting and possible guesses. Lol. Oh, good. Disappointment is something of a turn-off for a fic, after all. Who better, indeed? He had a bit more luck than Aragorn. Hm, Abyl. I've more or less decided his fate for this story already. However, you may plead his case if you wish. Elladan is not quite catatonic, and he'll get less catatonic then more catatonic in a kind of cycle as the serum wears off. At least, that's my plan. Thanks for your really long review. It was great. (g) Pray they cooperate with the torture scenes. They didn't the first time through. Lol. I hope it continues to be enjoyable.

**Veritas and Aequitas:** lol. I'm exceptionally pleased you feel that way. Kill Abyl? Blood, guts and mayhem? (eg) Possibly. Likely, even. I can't wait to see what he sees either. I bet it will be a wonderful surprise. Oh, and no one wants there to be lots of chapters when you get back more than I do....so long as you review them, of course. (wink)

**Nerfenherder:** Oh no! She's channeling Gollum! (looks horrified) (blushes and bows) I'm all blubbly inside. Thank you, thank you. I liked his monologue, too. Here's the next chapter, and here's hoping for a speedy update! Cheers!

**Oh! A very Merry Christmas to everyone if I don't manage to update before then! Drink lots of egg nog and stay warm. And open lots of presents. (G) Hugs and kisses, everyone.**


	22. Before the Storm

Surprise! I'm still alive and kicking, and I managed to kick out this next chapter. Really, really sorry it took so long. Elladan's sequences wouldn't cooperate, and I'm still not sure they're really what I want, but I think they work well enough so 'nough said. On an up note: I think I have about half of the next chapter already written. I have to go through what I have and figure out order and what not, discover what's missing. I'm thinking a week or two, but every time I tell you when, I'm late, so maybe we should pretend I didn't say that.

In case there's any doubt, I changed my name from Maranwe1 because (1) I hate being a number and (2) was being a jerk and wouldn't let me update my profile. (From 'because' on is just f. y. i.) I'm really happy (or somewhat numb, can't decide) because I got my film paper back today and got a 90 instead of the F I thought it was worth (yay!). Incidentally, that paper was what broke my writer's block. Lol.

Any updates (for those of you who don't know—those that don't care just ignore this, I'm sure you probably skip my little notes anyway) I have can be found on my profile page. I'll try to be prompt and give you the chapters instead of the notes, but I have papers and projects coming up for school that will make that even more difficult than it already is. The writing, annoyingly enough, isn't what takes up the time. But enough of that. There's a chapter waiting that's long overdue.

I don't remember offhand when I last posted, but I'm gonna guess it was before Christmas and hope you all had a great one and a happy new year and a nice Valentines and . . . but Easter's too far away to say anything about that.

Oh, and I'm participating in the Teitho Challenges started on the MC list, at least as the ideas come to me, so that could hinder my writing and will be responsible for the odd little stories that pop up. I'm blaming them. They shouldn't have started it! It gives me _more_ plot bunnies! (pouts)

Now it's really onto the story. Swear. Responses are at the bottom.

**Chapter 22**

_The land was strange._

_He stood in the gardens of Rivendell, overlooked by the North Tower. Spring was on the land and amid the carpet of new grown green bloomed flowers of bright red and pure white, yellow as the sun and blushing pink, with blues and purples gathered round like little seas. _

_It was an image born from younger years, and if he glanced at the sky he could see that it stood clear and cloudless, a perfect pale blue, and the sun was bright overhead. Yet a darkness seemed to hang at the edges of sight, and if ever he turned his gaze away, a shadow would fall upon it. Before his eyes, thought, the way was clear and a smile brightened his drawn and weary countenance at what he beheld._

_Away in a small alcove surrounded by flowering dogwood trees, a carved marble bench sat where peace might be enjoyed and rest taken in cool shade. Upon that bench sat a maiden, elven fair, with long golden hair and clear blue eyes. She was clad n a simple gown of pale pink and white blossoms surrounded her and sprinkled her hair. A small book lay upon her lap, a pen in her hand, and she was smiling as her slender hands drew graceful lines. _

_He drew closer, the better to see her, and felt contentment in her quiet joy, a peace not even the strangeness of so familiar a place could destroy. In his heart, he vowed again to do whatever was needed to protect her._

_He passed closer still, drawn by a pain in his heart he did not understand, loathe though he was to disturb her. But after several moments, he gave in and asked, "What do you draw, Mother?" His voice sounded strange on the air, like it passed through another mouth or two at once, quivering and dull._

_Yet Celebrian raised her head, a beam of sunlight striking her golden head, and smiled, and with her smile banished all care and concern from his mind. "Would you like to see?" she offered, her voice clear and musical, soothing as he remembered. _

_With her invitation, all hesitance left him and he strode quickly to sit at her side, his feet not seeming to touch the ground. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as he sat and, wordlessly, she passed the tablet into his hands._

_Holding it carefully, he glanced down into the faces of himself, Elrohir, and his father. All were smiling. He had no memory of posing thus, but he recognized their outfits from yesterday and knew this to be how their mother had seen them._

"_Handsome, are they not?" He looked up to find her smiling fondly at the drawing. "All the men of my life. My fierce protectors." She traced her fingers over the page then turned to him and studied his face. Her hand caressed his cheek; her eyes searched his, impossibly tender. "Uume kaure an amin, ion-nin."_

_Unbidden, the sun that streaked her head turned red and dripped like blood. Fingertips ghosted across his cheek, cold, the touch weak, frail, and the blue eyes locked on his own were dull and hopeless, full of pain. A plea: "Do not fear for me, my son."_

_He started as one struck and the moment was gone. Trembling, he pinned her hand to his face with his own and tried to smile, though it was shaky at best. Tears pricked his eyes and fear filled his heart. The rest of the garden seemed to disappear, for he saw only the elf maiden before him. "Don't say that, Nana," he begged. His voice rasped in his throat._

_Her smile remained untouched, bright as the sun despite the fear in his heart. And she did not speak._

o/o/o/o/o

He stalked across the camp, a scowl etched firmly onto his features. Often, he had heard it said that a good captain sacrificed his comfort for his lord, embracing even unpleasant tasks so his liege could attend to more important matters.

Unpleasant, however, had been left far behind long ago.

It was bad enough they had to reside in the mountains in the heart of winter, but warmth was not likely to be found in any lands north of Harad and it was a sacrifice he did not mind overmuch. Even the necessity of traveling without hoods with the biting wind did not change that opinion. Sleep, too, was necessary to forgo, at least while one of the twins and Kelt remained loose, and he had accepted that deprivation when he joined the Slyntari even before he approached the rank of captain.

No, all physical discomfort fell cleanly into the category of "unpleasant," even if they were stacked and combined to the point that they were unbearable. What single-handedly shoved every discomfort from "unpleasant" to "unlivable" was orcs—the foul, despicable, contrary, brainless menaces of his master's service. The Dark Lord, no doubt, would be pleased.

Torl absolute was not. His promotion had freed him from orc-duty, that responsibility given to Gilith; he was supposed to be able to delegate, order others to the tasks he did not want that others could reasonable do. But, no, somehow he _had_ to get stuck babying the orcs again.

_Kelt, I'll have your head,_ he declared silently. Were it not for her, the elves would still be firmly in their grasp, no outside threat forcing exposure to the elements, and the people—other than himself—who were supposed to deal with the orcs would not be out on patrols scouring the countryside for her and the other.

_Why can't those beasts act civil for one god-forsaken day?_ He grimaced, wondering how he could even _think_ the word "civil" in conjunction with orcs. _They're getting to you, Torl._

His gaze swept the camp from northeast to southwest out into the trees that surrounded the base. Moving here and there were groups of four or five, all with their hoods down, some returning and others leaving. He still could not fathom the reason for this if Shirk truly thought they would return for the remaining twin, but he knew there must be one. As it stood, the camp was more deserted than it had been since they had last abandoned it for a more convenient locale further north. He could not help but wonder what Kelt would make of it.

The dark-haired captain caught sight of clouds away to the south and paused, studying them. Dark and low, to him they looked impossibly wet and he quietly calculated their speed and direction. "Nightfall," he muttered. The night watches would be even more uncomfortable than usual. He would need to call the patrols back so the guard could be rotated more frequently.

He continued his walk, mentally reminding himself to pass on the orders ere the dusk patrols departed, and headed to the elf's cell alone. No one waited outside the slanted doors. He almost smiled. The patrols had done one thing at least: they had taken Nirt far away from him. He no longer had to balance his more reserved approach with her desire for pain.

Torl accepted the torch one of the guards handed him and walked down the long stair, listening to he solitary tattoo of his steps. The torch only did so much to dispel the darkness, and he used the echo and memory more than his sight to find his way down the stairs.

Upon reaching the bottom he lit a second brand set by the staircase and proceeded to the other side of the room to deposit his torch. He skirted the tray that had been placed in the middle of the room, noting in passing that everything he had requested was present. Good.

He walked back across to the elf, checked his eyes, his pulse, and his side to make sure the wound was not bleeding again. It was not; the pulse was fast, and the being's eyes were dilated further than he would have liked. The longer this went on, the more doses he was forced to administer, the more certain he became that the elf's body would break before his mind whether they raised a hand against him or not. But that was not his concern.

With a quiet sigh, he picked up the familiar vile and prepared the next dose. He watched the other's face as the liquid hit his bloodstream.

o/o/o/o/o

"_Nana," he rasped. "Please?"_

_Her eyes still locked with his, she slowly pulled away. He tried to hold onto her, but he could not move. His hand stretched out before him, then she moved out of reach and her hand slipped away._

_Foul voices echoed in the air. Fear seized him. He leapt to his feet. "Don't go, Nana!" he cried, but she retreated from him, bourn away as on a wind, her eyes still locked on his and a smile still on her face. "Nana! Come back!"_

_But she was gone._

_o/o/o/o/o_

Torl's gray eyes glittered coldly in the firelight as he waited for the drug to take effect. The other's breathing had accelerated almost the instant the drug entered his bloodstream, but that was not the sign he was waiting for. What he was waiting for was more subtle and he stared intently into the half-visible glazed blue eyes.

He could see shadows moving within the orbs; thoughts, perhaps, and wondered vaguely what the elf saw. What horrors and fears were paraded across the son of Elrond's mind? Did they see what men see? He had never been subjected to this drug; Kelt had (by her own choice, out of curiosity) but she had never spoken of what she saw and never tried it again. Was he seeing what she saw?

Then the shadows changed, darkened, and he knew it was time. Speaking firmly, he said, "Who is Isildur's heir?"

For an instant, their eyes met, the dark-haired elf focused full on him. He saw his chance, pressed again: "Who is Isildur's heir?"

Panic, resistance flew through his eyes and they darted wildly about the room, landing somewhere behind him. If lucid he had been, that lucidity was gone. Even as he asked again, he knew it was going to be a long day.

o/o/o/o/o

_The gardens now looked dark and cheerless, their joy stripped from their flowers and leaves; and the trees stood dark and menacing. The shadow that had hung at the edge of his vision like a mist encroached farther on his sight, devouring the fair lands of his father and surrounding him in blackness._

_In terror, he tried to turn away, tried to find a path the darkness did not claim, but neither stone nor stem nor tall tree hindered it, and it swept round him like the sea, rising quickly and closing mercilessly around him, choking off the light and washing away hope. Despair drowned him and then all was still._

_No sound touched his ears. No brush of wind came to his flushed cheeks. No hint of movement betrayed the presence of another in this gloom. He was alone._

_After a time, he dared to move, to breathe. His hand drifted aimlessly in the twilight, searching as the blind amid the unspoken, but touched nothing. Hesitantly, he shifted forward, seeking out the plants that had minutes before been near within his sight. His feet shuffled forward uncertainly yet no crunching of gravel, no grating of dirt, no crackling of leaves reached his ears. Did he but walk on air, he could not tread more silent!_

_Slowly, he sank to the ground and felt about him for pebbles, for dirt, for leaves, for silken-petals, slender stems, and found none. Naught but air passed through his fingers. His breath came short and quick. Quickly, he glanced at the sky, seeking the sun, or even the moon and stars; but if this was night, some great hand had stretched forth and blotted both from the sky so that even their memory was beyond recall._

_His breath shook as he rose to his feet, his body tense and battle-ready. In darkness he stood—darkness impenetrable even to elven eyes that stretched to the ends of the earth, empty of life, and it pressed in around him, closing in on him to choke the life from his body, to dispel the last light of his soul. Motionless, he waited; time stretched and shrunk, passing in a second, feeling an eternity, an eternity and a second. Breath flowed from his lungs and entered and nothing moved._

_Then something wrapped about his ankle. He gasped. Cold it was, like ice, and yet it burned like fire, and it was wet. Startled, he yanked his foot back, but the thing held firm. He kicked, flailed, twisted, turned—his foot felt like it would fall off, burned to ash and frozen to ice, his ankle sore—but the thing held him still._

_Another snared his left arm, wrapping it in fire and ice He looked to it in shock, in fear, but could not see. He pulled, started to reach with his right, but it too was caught, pulled so that his arms stretched to either side. His heart jumped, then his last foot was seized. Arrested—spread—defenseless, he could neither more nor fight, and his eyes widened in alarm._

_He opened his mouth to call for help but something looped around his neck and he could not breathe. His throat burned, throbbed— _

_In desperation he thrashed against his unyielding bonds, hoping, fearing, his pride forgotten. Nothing moved; nothing helped. He was alone. With the last of his strength—the last of his breath, he cried: "Elrohir!" _

_And then he fell._

_o/o/o/o/o_

The trees were the same listless shadows they had passed on the race east, each as dry as the last, dead to all outward appearance though some yet claimed a form of strength and fewer still a form of life—a half-life. Naked, their leaves blanketed the ground, brown and dead, some crisp and dry while others were soggy and rotten. Skeletons of once leafy bushes stood at their sides, their thin limbs the only thing left to them to suggest life. Black thorn bushes tangled about their feet, and creeping vines fed off what life they could find, the only green things yet in sight.

He walked through them, following a trail that did not exist as quickly as he could. In the distance, he could see fallen trees and rocky plinths that hid the landscape behind them. Every so often he would catch glimpses of trails, small paths that ended as suddenly as they began but which were well-defined while visible. He could guess much about their nature and purpose, but for now, they were not a concern so he noted them and ignored them. He had more important things to worry about.

Like how he was going to rescue his brother.

The layout of the Slyntari camp danced before his mind's eye, an image taken in the brief moments of their arrival through the mountains when the land had been visible and their position vaulted enough to command a view for miles. He could picture row after row of near, non-descript tents, arranged simply, and could guess at their number; yet while the memories of the eldar did not fade, neither could they make clear what was scarcely paid attention to. His concern for his brother had driven all but a rudimentary examination from his thoughts. How he rued it now.

Glimpses, he had, but they were glimpses without context. Who were the people he had seen? What had they been doing in that moment of vision? Was it what they usually did? Had duty called them thence, or leisure? Did the Slyntari even enjoy leisure? It frustrated him to realize the level of his own ignorance.

_How can I rescue Elladan when I don't even know the practical aspects of the camp?_ Their brief rest during their first escape had told him the camp was not arranged as a camp of war, but neither was it domestic. Its setup was foreign to him. Plus, from discussion and experience, he knew there were parts not easily seen even by those keen of eye.

"_Easy, my son,"_ his memory soothed, the calm voice of his father echoing in his ears as truly as if the elder elf stood next to him. _"Find your calm and clear your mind. Abandon haste. It will only hinder you."_

_I have hindered myself enough already,_ Elrohir thought, both resigned and annoyed, bordering on despondency but too wound up to fall prey.

The younger twin tried to calm his thoughts, tried to order them as he had been taught, but every time success approached his grip, his twin's face would flash before his eyes—as he fell or from the dream—and his worry would rise, casting about his efforts like a storm-tossed sea, shattering the state of mind that was most conducive to rational thought before it could be formed.

He flung his attention outward so not to be overwhelmed and focused once more upon the trails, attempting to trace them more completely. Behind him he could hear Sierra's steady tread, soft but easily discernible, and was not sure if it comforted him or disquieted him further.

The girl's loyalty was a matter yet unresolved in his mind. Her words and behavior sometimes clashed oddly, and that alone would have given him pause under normal circumstances—and these were hardly normal.

That she had all but claimed intimacy with the Slyntari, meaning an allegiance to the Dark One, was hardly a point in her favor. In fact, it was a strong mark against her, and but for Elladan's willingness to trust her and his father's words of caution he would have dealt with her long ago. As it was he could find no cause for such action on his part (save his instinctive dislike of her) and even had—however unwillingly—cause to keep her around: he needed help, and hers was the only aid to be had for weeks in any direction.

If his brother could scarce afford the passage of a few days—and he was sure he could not—then a couple weeks was out of the question. And even then, who would he go to? Neither the Rohirrim nor the Gondorians had had close association with the elves for the greater part of this age, and the memories of men were not so long as the eldar race. What aid would they willingly send even if he were to ask it? It was laughable. To think—

His thoughts stilled abruptly as he suddenly noted something changed in his surroundings. He frowned slightly, attempting to pinpoint the difference, and whirled when he determined it, his hand falling to his sword.

The elf started back as he found Sierra much closer than he expected, barely restraining a cry of shock, and saw his own surprise mirrored in her eyes. She stumbled back and half turned as if to face something behind her, then froze, apparently sure no enemy approached from the rear, and merely watched him, poised for trouble. He could almost see her mind spinning, furiously searching for an explanation for his strange behavior.

He, also, searched for an explanation. When he had realized he no longer heard her footsteps, he had assumed she had disappeared, the long awaited betrayal finally come to completion. So to find her still with him, exactly where he would have expected with no change of pace, was a surprise that defied description. He watched her closely, a frown on his face.

She endured his scrutiny quietly, still trying to puzzle out his behavior for herself. He saw the exact moment she gave up the exercise and watched her open her mouth to question him. Some shadow passed across her eyes, then—doubt? Uncertainty? He was not sure—and she closed her mouth without uttering a word. The girl settled for raising an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.

Taunting, he would have said, but the question had not left her eyes—eyes that were both more vulnerable and more remote than when they had last parted. "What were you doing?" they asked, but he ignored the question, his own discomfort focusing past the obvious question. His frown deepened, but it was his own question that perplexed him: what had changed?

Without answering either question by word or deed, Elrohir turned on his heels and continued his trek through the undergrowth, moving with quiet, deft grace despite his rising irritation at having been distracted from the important dilemma of how to rescue his brother now that the surprise was wearing off. The question raised slipped form his mind as if it had never been.

That he needed more information was a truth rapidly coalescing in his mind as he picked up his trail of thought where he left off; yet he was loathe to break the silence that existed between him and his temporary companion. He had no wish to revisit the fights that had characterized their conversations previously, no matter how little he liked her or trusted her. They were unnecessary distractions that served little more purpose than to rile his and agitate her, and—unless he was mistaken—it would only take a little to set one or the other of them off.

In the quiet, he could almost forget he did not trust her. Without hearing her voice, he could almost pretend she was any one of dozens of other people he had traveled with over the centuries whose company he found much more agreeable. There was just something in her tone, in her manner of address, which incited his resentment. He could no more pin it down than he could dismiss it and both irritated him further. Why could this girl not leave him in peace?

For now, however, the answer was simple: Elladan.

He frowned at the skeleton trees and once again attempted to order his thoughts, sorting through what he did and did not know. The former was distressingly short and the latter alarmingly long. That he had a ready-made information source in Sierra was a fact his mind, at least, was starting to appreciate, never mind that it galled him to be beholden to her for answers.

The dark-haired elf peered through the trees trying to glimpse the mountains behind them to judge how far they yet had to travel. The attempt thwarted him lest he looked over the boughs to glimpse the peaks, and that aided him little. Yet he could hear running water, less than a mile away unless his ears deceived him, and that was some help. They yet had several miles to cross, then.

"A storm approaches."

Elrohir glanced back at the girl in surprise before casting his eyes to the sky. He regarded the dark, low-hanging clouds dispassionately as he walked, his thoughts still focused elsewhere. "I will not seek shelter."

"By nightfall, it will have reached the camp," Sierra continued, undeterred. "The rains shouldn't fall 'til then."

He stopped, forcing her to stop, and glared at her. "I said I will not seek shelter!" he hissed.

She blinked. "There is no shelter to be had, whether you would or no," the girl replied calmly, a precise bite to her voice that reminded him of a frustrated parent reprimanding a recalcitrant child while trying not to snap.

"Then your reason for mentioning it was?" he prompted, his anger quickly rising once more in the face of his association despite his attempts to hold it in check.

"I thought you should know."

"I have eyes, child."

"But you didn't know." Matter of fact, he might almost have believed her innocent pretensions, but he could read more in her eyes, her emotions not so well masked in this as in other matters.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. She took an involuntary step back. "But that's not the reason you spoke; is it, Sierra?"

"Yes, it—"

"You cared not whether I knew of the approaching storm; all you cared about was your own amusement! Does it tickle you so to vex me? Does it make you feel powerful?" he demanded. "Selfish brat—did it never occur to you that you waste time with your foolish games? You callous, unfeeling wench! My brother could be dying even as we speak and you stand here playing games!"

Telling, indignant anger colored her cheeks. "Unfeeling, am I?" the girl retorted, fury blazing in her eyes and contorting her face. "You would not last five days in Mordor with what I have endured for fifteen years! It would've broken you! What business is it of yours how I deal with my circumstances?"

"When you came here to free me and my brother—when you returned, it became my business!" His frustration made him shout and he continued more quietly, hissing, "You're not in Mordor anymore! It does not control you nor your actions. Like a child, you justify both by pointing to your past, but it does not own you! What you do is your choice. Or did someone make you come back?"

He glared at her and she glared right back, but offered no answer. "For all your pretence of maturity, you're just a babe," he added after a furious beat. "You don't understand the world you live in so you paint it in visions of the past. Well that doesn't work, brat! Grow up or get lost. I don't have time for your childishness."

Without waiting for a response—no less angry than at the beginning and now angry with himself, as well, for giving into that anger—he turned on his heel and kept walking. His rage surged though him, a fire that washed across him like the waves at a tide, burning alternately high then low; yet as he walked further, he could feel it ebb, the force of it dissipating. Its echo, however, lingered long after the flood had passed, like a bad aftertaste he could not wash away, and his mood remained dark.

In the silence that followed, his anger to turned to shame at his outburst. He never should have given in to her provocation, yet he could not bring himself to apologize. Somehow, he felt Sierra would not take it well if he did. With little to no basis for the feeling, he could not help but wonder if it was not his own reticence that spoke, but it did not go away. He let the impulse to apologize fade as the anger had. That he could still hear her footsteps following (albeit a couple steps further back) convinced him to let the matter rest. Right or wrong, he would let her come to her own conclusions with no interruptions from him.

He turned his mind back to his brother and was surprised at how easily it was done. His mind slipped past the horror of his dream and the terror of his twin's fall to a place beyond emotion where the camp was brought more clearly into focus, the different memories and views gathered together and fitted one upon the other like pieces of a puzzle until the layout, deepened by opposing views, was spread before him.

Despite Sierra's hesitance, he knew moving about the camp would actually be fairly simple. His superior senses and ease of movement would be an excellent asset. Finding Elladan, too, was likely easily accomplished. What he knew of Shirk told him told him the elf loved psychological games and trapping his enemies within their own expectations, but that he was unlikely to pursue that pleasure when there was the possibility it would fail—however unlikely. That they had nearly escaped once was a fact he could not ignore, so whatever else awaited the younger son of Elrond, guards were to be the best indication of Elladan's position.

It was getting in to begin with and withdrawing without falling back into the trap that would prove the true difficulty. The fall alone would have made any escape attempts troublesome, but those injuries were not the only things they would have to contend with. That prospect—escaping with his injured brother—was daunting. How was he to do it, knowing what he knew?

"_Do not allow the distant prospect to overwhelm the immediate. Start at the beginning, my son. Then the path will unwind before you."_

Yet the beginning was no more promising than the ending. If he could but start in the middle, he felt he could get somewhere. That the quickest way inside Death Camp (aside from being recaptured) was from the southeast certainly encouraged that course; but elf or no, there was no way he could disappear completely to elude the eyes of the guard who stood watch.

Continuing west to the mountains nicely circumvented the problem of crossing nearly a mile of open land, yet Elrohir was not convinced that was as simple as the girl had suggested. He remembered seeing guards about the entrances to those tunnels, and there was no way past that save killing them. He was nearly positive missing guards would be noticed. Besides, the prospect of becoming trapped in the dark confines was not alluring.

No, he would not approach from the west. That much he was willing to proclaim. The added travel time and difficulty, plus the fact that he would have to rely solely upon the half-grown girl nearly made marching straight into Mordor alone more palatable. Thus decided, however, he was still left the difficult task of determining a mode of entrance from the southeast, or as near to it as could be managed.

His gaze ranged once again across the trees. Largely thin, brittle-looking things, they offered little inspiration. Rather disgruntled, he wondered if setting the lot of them aflame would be distracting enough to let him enter the camp unhindered.

He suspected not.

The smoke from such a thing, however, could possibly prove beneficial—if it was copious and hovered near to earth for an extended period of time. Then he could use the smoke to slip by unnoticed and so pass his first obstacle. Knowing it would need to be several miles of smoke that hovered about like fog convinced him he may as well wish for the Valar to cloak him in a cloud and spirit him. . . .

Elrohir's thoughts trailed off as his blue eyes tracked to the sky. The dark clouds still several miles south of their position hung with weighty imminence in the pale blue, almost gray, sky. He spent a few minutes judging for himself whither the storm would go and when, and concluded that the girl was probably right in her estimates, whatever her motivation had been. A snowstorm, perhaps, could help him.

Sierra's words finally penetrated his brain, and he turned towards her with frown, quite forgetting his anger. "You meant it wouldn't snow until nightfall," he said, the sentence a question only so far as to beg confirmation.

Dark blue eyes lifted from their contemplation of the ground to meet his gaze, her expression and posture unchanged. "Nay, Master Elf. I said rain, and I meant rain."

"It is too cold for rain this time of year," he protested.

"And yet my words and meaning remain unchanged," she noted ironically.

"Sierra—"

She cut him off. "If you will not believe me, see for yourself when the first drops fall. Or, if you prefer, call it sludge. But whatever you call it, it is not snow. Real snow, here, only falls on the mountains."

He studied her skeptically, but could think of no reason she should lie about this. What difference did it make, really, if it was rain or snow? The answer, of course, was none at all.

"Rain?" he reiterated, just to be sure and give her one last chance to recant her claim. She nodded curtly, however, and he continued walking silently, mulling over this new information within the confines of his mind. Dark, cold, and rain, he knew from experience (second-hand, but experience just the same) were uncomfortable for men.

Perhaps, he thought slowly, a smile beginning to tug at his lips, rain was even better than snow.

o/o/o/o/o

_Something changed._

_He looked around with pensive eyes, but could see nothing. Nothing indicated change; nothing was around to cause the change—at least not that he could see. Change without a cause sprung tension through him, a fear of the unknown._

_What pain had he known in the dark? What horrible things had surprised him from the depths of a fathomless abyss? The answer, the truth, eluded him, but he felt its presence. It knew what haunted him, what plagued the shadows to rip him apart._

_He inched to the side. Maybe if he could get out—get away from here, he would escape. The doom that stalked him would pass. It was possible. Probable. It could happen. He looked around, glanced behind him, as if expecting to confront glowing red eyes. Yet there was nothing but shadow. He took larger steps, daring to move further, quicker. _

_But the farther he moved, the greater seemed the presence. More and more often he looked behind him, searching, seeking—the darkness ever an impediment. He could not see though he stared into the empty pit. He turned back around thinking to find somewhere to hide—_

—_and jumped. A scream rose in his throat at the form that met him, dark and shadowed, until his eyes lighted on his face, and fear transformed to shock. "Elrohir!"_

_His twin smiled at him, but did not move. He stood straight, stiff. _Unnatural_, was the word that popped into his mind, but his relief at finding his brother instead of a demon was too great to attach any importance to that. It was a peculiarity within the norm of his surroundings. It meant nothing._

"_What are you doing here?" He waited, expectant, his joy a boisterous uncontained thing unusual to him, harkening back to older days. _

_It met with silence. _

"_I didn't expect you here," he continued when the quiet became too much, the weight of expectancy to great. "I mean, I can't imagine why—you're my twin, we always do everything together, but I hadn't thought you'd be here. When did you come? Where did you come from?"_

_He halted, his words cut off with the abruptness of one who expects an immediate response, begun almost before he finished, and the continued silence unsettled him almost as much as the change. In the back of his mind, he realized he had been rambling, that it was out-of-character for him, and his reality seemed to twist, pulling back on itself and warping—a shift more felt than seen._

_It felt strange, and he looked to his brother—truly looked at him—for the familiarity he missed. A smile still adorned Elrohir's face, but to his eyes, the expression looked fixed, wooden. The eyes looked dead, their customary sparkle gone. The posture was wrong. He recognized nothing of his brother in the figure before him._

_Belatedly, he took a step back, regarding the being warily. "Elrohir?" he queried uncertainly, hoping for a spark of recognition, humor . . . anything! He wanted to see his brother. . . ._

_But the blank stare followed him. He took another step back, then whirled to flee, to escape this masquerade. And came up short._

_Bare inches from his face stood a familiar visage. But where the other had mocked humor, this one held menace. The same smile adorned its handsome face, but there was something hard in it, and the eyes sparkled wickedly, like steel in moonlight._

_He took a step back and was pulled up short by a firm grip on his arm, the fingers biting into his flesh. "E-Elrohir?" he asked, uncertainly, but he already knew this was not his brother._

"_Don't go," the other said, smiling widening. A chill shuddered down his spine. Far from his brother's warm voice, it sounded like a child and a nazgul, high yet rasping, not one yet not the other—evil hiding behind an innocence that could not conceal it._

_More than anything he wanted to go, to escape, to pull away, but he could not. His body revolted against him, pinning him in place, the hand only partially responsible for holding him in place. He could not move. Helplessly, he looked into cold, merciless eyes._

"_We have so much to do."_

_Understanding did not hit him immediately. For a moment, he hung suspended, unwilling to imagine what was to come, unable to escape that it would. It was on his tongue to ask his brother not do this, to plead with him not to do this._

_Then the being's hand rose and reached for his chest. Ice struck his breast, penetrating, hard and sharp, seeping the warmth from him, spreading throughout his body. Ice so cold it burned. _

_As images flashed through his mind, he screamed._

_o/o/o/o/o_

Hours never passed so long than in monotony. The same questions over and over, the only replies screams or moans or terrified cries, pleas. . . . He had learned something, though, even if he had been quite happy in ignorance and it was not what he was looking for.

This elf was Elladan, the elder son of Lord Elrond—unless he had been calling for himself, unlikely—something he would be willing to bet Shirk had known full well and not told him. Not that he cared. An elf was an elf, and at this point it hardly mattered if his name was Gil-galad, except if it was it would probably be Shirk down here questioning him instead of Torl.

"Your brother can't hear you," he told the insensate being before him, not minding in the least that he could not be heard. Darkness, a brief respite, had claimed the elf moments before as it had numerous times in the past, and he relished the chance to hear sensible words even if they were his own. "He's long gone and far away from here. If he's smart, he's not coming back, either."

The human frowned at the battered face before him and then pressed a spiced rag against the cut on his arm. Elladan gasped and jerked as if slapped, his breathing restarting at a slower and even jerkier pace than it had been before. His frown deepened.

The mind was only pliable for three hours after an administered dose, which meant he had a lot of the drug in his system by this point, but that was the third time this session he had stopped breathing, his system too strained to properly remember all its tasks. Would the elf survive another dose? He was due another, but would it prove too much?

Torl considered that as he stood and began making his way back up the stairs, torch in hand. At the top, he rapped once against the door, waited for the requisite two knocks and wrapped again. When the door opened and he stepped into the sunlight, he was almost surprised to find it nearly dark though sunset was still at least two hours away. He glanced briefly at the sky, noting the darkening clouds.

"My lord." He looked at the man who had stopped before him and bowed. The man straightened and continued, "Lord Shirk wishes an update. He would speak to you."

"Order all patrols not yet departed and due to return after sunset to be cancelled. Have Kine draw up the watches rotated every three hours, _kalen tiers_, he will know what to do. Tell our lord the elf has not spoken and I will report to him when the questioning is done, unless he bid now?"

"Nay, Captain," the other answered, sketching another quick bow before leaving on his fresh duties.

The young captain watched him as he disappeared amid the tents, then turned and retreated down the stairs. The next six hours would be long, indeed.

o/o/o/o/o

An hour had passed, yet scarcely had they traveled half the distance they had managed the first hour. Their pace had not merely slowed, it had been curtailed.

Upon crossing the first bend of the river, the Slyntari had suddenly made themselves known. The first group had passed further west of their position, prompting the disparate pair to fade into their surroundings and remain still. The second group had appeared near where the first disappeared but further south and moved further east, almost paralleling their path some twenty yards below them. That path, so near to the fugitives, kept them in hiding for nearly ten minutes as they slowly made their way through the growth.

Never before had he been given the opportunity to study the way the Slyntari moved, his previous encounter with them not exactly conducive to lengthy examination. Yet here with plenty of time to do nothing save watch, he was struck by their skill and silence. It almost reminded him of the rangers with whom he had traveled so often in the past. They moved with confident familiarity through the trees, their knowledge of the land aiding their quiet steps. He could see Shirk's influence as clearly as he could see his own and Elladan's in Estel.

They moved on in silence, the only difference being that the girl had closed the distance between them to its original length. They were constantly on the lookout for more patrols, and more than once had to slow to avoid a group passing some distance away.

When a third group appeared nearly right upon them from the rear, Elrohir thought he finally understood why Sierra had proposed traveling further south, and better than he had ever wanted to.

Both held very still as the foursome reached a certain point and split, each member going a slightly different direction. The Slyntari fanned out, just missing their shelter and slowly disappeared into the trees.

The elf turned his gaze from them and looked at Sierra with a raised eyebrow. The girl frowned, then motioned with her head towards the nearest section of well-defined path. "They're checkpoints," she answered. "Patrols can take any route they choose so long as they hit all their assigned checkpoints."

_Wonderful_, he thought sarcastically, but he simply nodded and moved forward again, picking an ever more careful trail than before. He dutifully skirted each checkpoint and tried to keep them near some form of cover. If his companion objected, she gave no indication of it. He noted her expression as he glanced back to take in the terrain behind them and nearly hissed in vexation.

It was an irritating cycle he found himself in. On the one hand, he had his brother. Worry for him forever ate at the back of his mind and tried to consume him if ever he gave it the slightest chance. On the other hand, he had Sierra. Young, remote, and disagreeable, she was the last person he should choose as an ally, his faith in her nonexistent. Each gave him cause for concern; and it was inevitable that thoughts of one would lead to musings on the other.

His brother was in trouble; he needed to get him out of the camp, away from Shirk. How could he do that? No alone, he knew—but the only help was the girl. He did not trust her. Elladan had. Why had his brother trusted her? Because he was in trouble. . . ?

The cycle continued, over and over, no matter which thought occurred to him first. More than anything, he wanted to ease his twin's pain—make him well, but until he reached the Slyntari camp such desires were far beyond his reach. The one close enough to touch, he had no faith in and could not broach the questions he wanted to know. And if Sierra's expression had been difficult to read before, now it was impossible.

It took little effort to deduce the change was his fault. Ever since he had yelled at her, her expression had become shuttered. Nothing of her thoughts or feelings made it to her face. He had known professional killers more expressive than her, and that despicable brand of being was exactly what she reminded him of—which did nothing for his state of mind at all.

The way opened up off to his right with a strange rock formation coming up on his left. The view past the small clearing was fairly close, allowing good sight for only a short distance before the gray trunks layered together and blocked one's view. He looked, glaring at the shadows with a piquancy unwarranted.

Why could not things be simple just once? Why did this have to happen so soon after the trouble with Estel? He was not even sure his little brother was well before he was faced with the distinct possibility of losing his twin. What would that do to the human's already fragile state of mind, for he would lose them both instead of just one?

Devastate him, if he knew his younger brother at all. It pained him that he could not even properly regret such an occurrence if Elladan died. It was a source of some guilt that he had no even thought about his brother in the last couple days. How much could have happened since they left Rivendell? The hope or failure of all their dreams, and yet. . . . Elladan—

His eyes caught on a shadow amid the trees. It broke from the norm in a way he could not immediately place, somehow different from the other shadows he had seen recently. It reminded him strangely of the patrol groups that appeared out of the wood, but it was not moving. In fact, it appeared to be pointing. . . .

Understanding clicked. Without thinking, he lunged backwards, grabbed Sierra's hand and pulled her sharply towards the stone, using his own momentum to add to the motion's power. The arrow exploded into a tree just behind her at neck height.

His back struck the hard rock, shoving the air from his lungs, and he caught her arms instinctively as she stumbled into him, steady her. In the next instant, she had pulled back, pulled her bow, and shot an arrow. Whether or not it struck its target, he could not tell. And (for the moment) did not care.

The shooter's companions had abandoned their cover and approached with weapons drawn. Turning to face them, he drew his sword. There were three. He saw Sierra glanced behind him and knew more approached. His jaw clenched. Where had they come from?

A question for another time, he knew. The elf moved forward a few feet, putting some distance between him and the rock at his back, then set himself and waited for the others to reach him. They hesitated just out of reach, and he glanced between them, watching for an opening and waiting. They exchanged covert glances. What. . . ?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sierra move in the same instant he heard a _snap_. What she did, he did not see for his attention was grabbed by something flying at his face. He had a brief moment to recognize the net for what it was, his sword moving instinctively to counter it, before the thick ropes collided with him and flung him backwards, the lines about his feet tripping him as they suddenly pulled upward.

His breath left him in a rush as he slammed into the stone. His sword cut through a couple of the ropes and he half-fell, though his legs remained trapped and his right arm stuck. The rock scraped along his back and the rope chaffed his arm. A muttered curse slipped past his lips.

From his trapped position, Elrohir saw Sierra move against one of their attackers, quickly slipping past him to engage the second and securing the attention of the third. Annoyance—how did she escape?—surged through him, followed by the more productive realization that she was buying time for him to escape their trap.

_Which also means there are enough men in the second group that she doesn't think she can face them alone_, he concluded. _And they're close enough she can't dispatch them then free me herself._ What he did not understand was why she did not simply finish them off anyway. She had the skill.

Unless she did not want to kill them?

Suddenly, her movements too quick for even Elrohir's keen eyes to follow exactly, she struck, felling two of the three she faced. He blinked. The abrupt action reminded him of his own task, and he levered his blade against the braided strands that held him. Pain, the odd groan of a bone stressed as it was never meant to be, vibrated through him, but he ignored it and pushed harder.

The first of the ropes gave way as Sierra stumbled, almost missing her opponent's blade and just catching it near the hilt. Her feet slid over the scattered leaves. He could hear others coming up on the plinth and struck the strands holding him with his newly mobile arm. The motions were somewhat awkward, as it was his left hand, but the task hardly required finesse. The ropes could not give way fast enough.

In moments, he had pulled himself free of the tangling cords. A quick glance showed Sierra still engaged with her opponent and holding her own. Quickly, he tossed the sword to his right hand; he closed his fingers around the hilt just as the first opponent came into view. Swords rang as the enemies clashed.

Elrohir moved quickly, striking from as many places as he could. With the stone at his back, they could only attack from three directions, but he was loathe to become pinned down against the rock. So he shifted from side to side, occasionally darting forward to strike the too bold, once loping off a hand as he did so. It did not take long for him to notice their hesitation and determine its cause. _They want me alive._ A grim smile touched his lips.

Tightening his focus, he moved faster, pushing his elven speed and agility to the limits. To his opponents, he became no more than a blur—there and gone again as his sword flashed among them.

Normally formidable warriors, their hesitation undid them. They paused when they should have struck, unsure if they saw what they thought they saw, more concerned with not killing their quarry than emerging victorious. Their orders and instincts conflicted—and their orders won.

They second-guessed themselves. His blade carved into them one by one. They were young. They had not expected their trap to fail. They had not expected the need to fight a foe more skilled than they. They paid for the failure of their plan with their lives. He showed no mercy.

When he stopped moving, his sword held in a double-handed reverse-grip along his right forearm, none stood. Two has knives in their backs. The rest had fallen by his sword. Shirk had sent them to succeed or die. He looked in their lifeless eyes, open but forever closed to the world, and wondered if they thought it was worth it. Then he looked at Sierra. "Would you have been one of them?" he asked, motioning to the corpses.

Her eyes were cold as she looked at them. "I would have come up with a better plan," she answered, squatting to gather her knives with no more concern than if she was plucking them from a target tree.

He noticed she did not answer his question. He pressed another instead, "You think you could have?"

"With fifteen men and advanced knowledge of the enemy's passage?" she countered, scornful disbelief penetrating the aloofness. "A half-wit could've come up with better than this."

"Yet it would have worked," he observed, "if not for the fact that you eluded their trap." He studied her face as she stared blankly at one of the fallen. "Are you certain this was the extent of their plan?" he prompted after a moment, accepting that she would not answer his implied question, and willing to address another that had just occurred to him and perhaps held more relevance.

Her head came up and the slightest frown creased her brow. Apparently, she had not considered it either. He waited quietly as she studied the way yet before them, the path of her thoughts well-concealed.

"I think it is," she finally decided, still watching their surroundings. "Other teams may wait further west, but fifteen is already too many for a single unit. Botched or stupidity, it is done."

For long moments, he just stared at her, trying to see past the affectations and pretensions to the true word underneath. The problem was he could not, not for sure. She was too good at hiding her thoughts, too used to presenting a certain image to present another, whether truth or lie. He would have to decide, and he would have to do so to the exclusion of the truth.

Neither moved. He listened to the wind howling thinly through the trees and felt it sweep past him like a ghost. He saw his breath cloud on the air. Finally, he asked, "Did you know they would wait for us?"

Some shadow flickered across her eyes. Her jaw tensed. "I forgot," she whispered. In that admission, that bare movement of her lips, he could finally hear something of her, something undeniably real. She did not say it, but he heard it just the same: "A mistake; a mistake I never should have made."

Slowly, he nodded. They were safe for the moment, then, barring any unanticipated patrols— His eyes narrowed. "Did you say fifteen?"

"Aye," she answered warily, eyeing him curiously.

"There are only twelve."

Sierra briefly scanned the bodies littering the ground, then nodded once. "Twelve plus the archer—" She gestured across the clearing. "—and the two scouts—" with another gesture back the way they had come "—make fifteen."

"Scouts?"

"There are always two scouts for such ambushes."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Did you not see them?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Then how do you know they were there?"

Annoyance flashed through her eyes, gone as quickly as it had come. "If you would like, we can backtrack a mile or so and I will find where they hid for you," she offered, acidity present in her tone. "Elrohir, good scouts are not meant to be seen! They have one job: to see those approaching before the approaching find the rest of their companions. That's all they do! Do you always see your Elven scouts? Especially when you don't even know they're there?"

"Peace, Sierra," he bid, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "It was an innocent question. What will the scouts do now?"

By her expression, she was not willing to believe his assertion, but she let it pass. "Return to camp."

"Not to their superiors here?" He found that hard to believe.

She cocked her head, trying to come up with an explanation for something she knew simply as fact. "They don't report to the unit commanders. They are assigned to them, and accept their assignment from them, but they report to the field captains, who may or may not report in detail to the captain.

"In matters like this one, they will wait at their assigned post until the specified time, then depart and head back to their direct supervisor. The assumption will be that this group already returned to camp, as they were supposed to."

"Then the scouts could still be there?" he questioned.

Sierra nodded slowly. "It is possible. They wait a specified period of time after contact before abandoning post."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed. Either way, what surprise they had hoped to gain through secrecy was lost. They Slyntari would soon know which way they headed and draw their own conclusions. Silently, he amended his plan. "Let's go," he ordered, suiting action to word.

"But they know where we're going," Sierra protested, unmoved.

He looked back at her. Wide eyes met his hard gaze. "That's right," he agreed easily. "And we aren't going to disappoint them."

o/o/o/o/o  
o/o/o  
o/o/o/o/o

**Bingo:** No, it's not supposed to be like that. I had hoped I caught it before anyone read it, but you dashed my hopes quite nicely. (g) And, obviously, you have to wait a bit for more from Aragorn and Legolas. I'm gonna call it a token appearance next chapter. Happy reading!

**AM**: Whatever gave you that idea? (looks at the blade she's sharpening and quickly hides it behind her back) lol. Hehe, breathing. More or less, at least. Hehe. I think I'm gonna go before I end up sounding even more like a deranged psycho-killer than I already do. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Karriya:** Are you here? Thank you!

**Cosmic Castaway:** Thanks for the nudge. They motivate me, I swear, even if the results aren't always quick. I left Aragorn and Legolas out of this one especially for you. (eg) Maybe I'll put them in next chapter, though. Shhh, don't tell it, it might _hear_ you and fix it. Heh, yeah right. Anyway, lovely hearing from you.

**Grumpy:** Um, yes and no. I'm an elf! Lol. If it helps, I think things are going to look much worse for them. I think. Hard to say of something not written yet. Very sad, that.

**DeepBlueSomething:** Alright, easy part first: (g)grin, and (eg)evil grin, such as I've determined and how I use them. If there's a higher power that says otherwise, so be it. Erm, it's probably a little of both. Sort of, kind of, not really addressed in this chapter. You mean they haven't already walked into it? Wow. I hope they get along too. I'm starting to like them together, and in the tangents my mind runs off on that never makes it to paper, that's scary. I may have to kill her off just to save Elrohir. Eh-hem. Oh, me too. For the whole lot of what you said. It's not written yet, so I obviously can't guarantee anything even if I wanted to. (eg) Love your review.

**Nerfenherder:** (g) I'm just glad you reviewed, never mind when. I feel like such a hypocrite when I ask for reviews and then don't review other people's stuff. But I'm overly critical (thus the reason I always think my stuff sucks) and I can't tell someone it was great, whether I liked it or not, when I think it can be so much better, and unless I'm in a particular mood, I don't really want to tell them 'It was nice, but—' You know? Completely tangent. Anyway: I liked that too. Thought it was rather brilliant, myself. (g)

**Abby:** (blinks) Yeah, ok. Um, for the love of what?


	23. Dusk

Okay, if there was ever any doubt that I'm very good at doing what I'm not supposed to, here's the proof. I should have been writing my speech—which still isn't done and is due tomorrow—but I spent the early morning hours when I was supposed to be sleeping typing this up instead. Which means instead of waiting another three weeks, you get the next chapter now. Chapter 24 will definitely not be making an appearance until after April 6th. Oh, and if I should fail out of college (or, in this case simply lose my scholarship) you will never, ever hear from me again. My mother would have killed me. Or I would have killed myself. I _really_ don't want to work with kids the rest of my life.

Forgive me for not responding to reviews. I'm much too tired. And as it's nearly 4 a.m. with me having a class at 7 a.m. I hope you'll forgive me. Alright, toodles. If there was anything else I needed to say, I've completely forgotten and I hope you'll forgive me that, as well. Night, and enjoy!

Actually, it's now 1:40, but that's because was being stupid and I went to bed. I still don't have time to respond to reviews, however. Post on the run! Haha! (snort)

**Chapter 23**

The tent was plain. It held an air of judgment, of solitude—of comforts withheld. A fairly large tent, its decoration did not match its size. Only the back half held any of the accoutrements—furs, a desk, chairs, statues—usual for the Slyntari's commander. Sparse but rich, they imparted an elegance lacking in the rest of the space. The only objects at the front were a pair of iron coat racks positioned in the corners that served no discernible purpose for naught was even hung upon them.

Shirk barely noticed any of it, thought the sun through the sand-colored walls cast it in sharp relief and rendered the colors clearly. It was, perhaps, some of the last daylight left to them, but he was in no mood to enjoy it.

His eyes were ice blue slits as the stared through the side of the tent towards the northern mountains. "You are sure?" he prompted, voice both hard and cold.

"Yes, my lord," the lieutenant answered, bowing sharply.

"Bring them before me," the elf lord ordered.

The other man offered a short bow he did not look to see and hurried from the tent to carry out his lord's bidding. The elf did not move as he heard the canvas doors flap closed and caught the man's brisk orders to nearby guards. He ignored all the half-sensed movement and drew a gold chain from his pocket. Finely crafted, the slender band placed a slanted cross at one end and the crest of his former house at the other. It was his lone memento from his other life, a reminder of their foolishness and his anger, and the pinky-sized hole through the middle did little disguise its origin.

Not looking at it, he closed his left hand about the small links and drew the chain from the top with his right until the cross reached the bottom of his fist. Then he wrapped it around the back of his hand and opened his fist to draw the remainder over his palm. When he closed his fist once more, the desecrated crest hung from the top of his clenched hand by only an inch of chain. Only then did he lower his eyes to it.

He twisted his wrist so the crest fell across his fingers and idly ran his thumb across it, circling the hole in its center slowly, meditatively. Then he spoke, his urbane voice breaking the silence that had fallen over the tent with the suddenness of a thunder clap. "Neika, bring me my blades."

A young boy abandoned his position at the wall, bowed, and walked out, moving with the smooth, quick, unobtrusive propriety that marked all good servants. The tent flaps whispered shut in the wake of the youth's passage.

The fair-haired elf watched the wall before him as vague shadows moved across it, his face carefully blank. Then he glanced around, turned on his heel, and leisurely paced towards the opposite wall. As he moved, he twisted his wrist and caught the gold chain between his forefinger and thumb. The crest spun as he rolled it back and forth. He felt it brush against his fingers but did not look at it again until he passed the far corner of his desk and again halted. The gold burned with a subdued fire.

_Errors must be corrected_, he thought calmly, staring at the piece of gold with contempt. _Death works well toward that end. It serves the strong and devours the weak. So must it remain._

Cold eyes watched a final spin, then he dropped the loops, catching the small memento by the cross and jerking it into the air before catching it neatly in his palm. Figures pushed into the tent, three in all, and he viewed them out of the corner of his eye. Only when the group stilled, their bows completed, did he finish the movement and drop the token nonchalantly into his pocket.

He turned toward them, but did not look at them, continuing idly back the way he had come, clasped his hands behind his back, and said, "Your reports claim two individuals, one male, one female, passed your posts heading west, correct?"

"Correct, my lord," the two he had summoned answered.

He nodded unconcernedly. "Furthermore, you claim they fell prey to a trap established by your commanding officer."

"Yes, my lord," they answered again, but nervousness and unease stuttered through their reply. He heard them shift, saw their movement in his peripheral vision and knew that if he looked, he would see their eyes darting to their companions'. They were wondering where this was going. They knew of their failure.

"This trap, you held no part in beyond that of scout and watcher, correct?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And you performed your tasks accordingly."

"Yes, my lord."

Shirk stopped before the pair, and now he did look at them, cold eyes hard and searching, demanding. They straightened painfully under the direct force of his gaze. Quietly, he continued, a hard edge noticeable in his voice. "You waited the prerequisite time, failed to get a confirmation, and went to the site of the trap where you discovered the remains of your team."

"Yes, my lord."

"And there was no sign of either prey among the fallen."

"None, my lord."

He made no visible reaction to that confirmation, but continued forward and around his desk. A scroll of no import lay open upon it, and he pulled it towards him, scanning the words carelessly. His eyes still on the paper, he spoke: "And upon discovering your quarry missing, you reported here immediately."

"Yes, my lord."

He heard more than saw his slave return with the requested items, each finely crafted blade carefully arrayed on a tray which the boy deposited soundlessly before him. One hand still behind his back, the elf lord reached forward and traced his fingers over the hilt of a straight, two-foot long tapered blade, then lightly gripped the blade next to it: a broad-bladed curved dagger with an ivory hilt. He picked it up and twisted it before his eyes. "Do you find any fault in your actions?"

"N-no, my l-lord," they answered haltingly.

He nodded, accepting the answer, then made his way back around the desk, dagger still in hand, to stand before the first of the sentries. He had lived among men for centuries yet this brat looked like every other human that had crossed his path.

"It did not occur to you," he said softly, "to find where they had gone after their escaped your trap?"

"T-that was not within my mandate, milord." Fear swirled in his eyes.

Shirk did not reply but moved to stand before the other man. "Did such a thought occur to you?"

The soldier swallowed hard. "N-no, my lord."

He backed away from them and studied the blade once more. It was of elven make, cold and hard—strong. The runes that decorated it dipped into the silver gleam. "Your ability to follow orders it commendable," he observed finally, his voice emotionless. He saw them begin to relax, felt their tension begin to ease. He smiled coldly. "Unfortunately, your lack of vision, and your failure cannot be ignored."

The implications of his words were still sinking in when he buried the dagger in the first man's gut. The being gasped, jerked, his eyes becoming glassy, when blood poured from his open mouth. The elf jerked the blade free and barely spared a glance as the body sank to the ground.

He moved to the second sentry, looking into the man's eyes as he trembled in terror. He spoke softly. "You should have brought me that Elf or found a way to die with your unit." That said, he stabbed the curved blade into the youth's abdomen. A whimper of pain escaped blood flecked lips. He twisted the blade sharply and blood cascaded over his hand, poured from the sentry's mouth and nose. Panicked pain shone brightly in rapidly glazing eyes.

The elf stepped back carelessly, paying no attention to the dead at his feet and picked a cloth from the tray to clean his hand and the blade. He ignored the lieutenant that stood fearfully behind the still-warm bodies, the man desperately wondering if he would share the young men's fate.

He placed the now clean dagger back on the tray carefully, then proceeded to wipe more blood from his hand. "I expect the recruits to be of higher caliber, lieutenant," he warned lightly.

"Yes, my lord."

Shirk glanced carelessly in the man's direction, taking in the bodies desecrating his floor with the look and swept around to the other side of the desk. He plucked a strip of paper from the mass and sat easily, his nimble fingers taking up a quill. He wrote something, then rolled it and slipped it into a small case. "Send this," he ordered, and the lieutenant scrambled forward to take it and beat a hasty retreat. Shirk let him reach the entrance before voicing a final command.

"Dispose of them."

He paid no more notice as the guards were waved in and dragged the bodies out into the camp. They were already forgotten, his mind on matters of true import.

o/o/o/o/o/o

_The hardest thing_, he thought, _about any plan is waiting. No matter how difficult the actual task, this is the hardest part._ He resisted the urge to fidget, to pace or shift his weight. If he was to be successful, he had to remain unnoticed.

Night had come early to these parts, encouraged by the encroachment of cloud upon clear sky to lock the sun. A gray twilight had hung over rock and tree for the past hour though true sunset was still hours distant. Tense expectation had crept over the lands with the threatening gray, and the dark-haired elf had been present to watch much of it, seeing first-hand from a distance how the approaching storm effected their actions. Most interesting to him was the guards' behavior.

Elrohir perched amid the shadows of an odd shaped stone, tucked inside a crevice that mostly hid him from view and allowed him fair sight of the camp. The rock was several yards within the tree line and no human would have seen anything of value; but he could, and he noted the increasing frequency with which the humans glanced to the sky. Based on what body language he could read, Sierra had not been mistaken in her assertions that the Slyntari disliked these storms.

More than that, though, his position gave him a perfect view of one o the last checkpoints before the various groups returned to camp. According to Sierra, this was one of the last locations checked on the regular patrols. If she was right, the patrol would come in no earlier than sunset. They hoped the cover of darkness, combined with the coming storm would keep the sentries from noting anything unusual about him. Then, if he could just remain unnoticed by the patrol he intended to follow, he would be in the camp and able to slip away unnoticed.

That was the plan, at least. If everything would work was less certain, and the time with nothing to do save think and watch was trying his nerves. The thought of doing nothing while his brother suffered was nearly enough to drive him mad and send him flying from his hiding place.

"_Waiting with purpose is not useless, young one,"_ Glorfindel chided from his memory. _"It is tactical. Without the right time, even the best plans are doomed to failure. No matter the urgency, you must take the time necessary for success. Wait for it, Elrondion."_

He had been much younger, then, and on the other side of the world, far to the north. And it had been rangers who needed saving, not his twin brother. When the fear was not near to overwhelming he could admit that he had stood to lose much that day, for if they had failed Estel never would have come into their lives. The line of Elendil would have failed long before the heir's father's father was born and hope would have been lost.

When his fear did threaten to overwhelm him, it was Sierra's face that stilled him—her doubt, clearly visible on her face when he had proposed his plan, when she had questioned if he could wait as long as necessary, still and silent, while day slipped to night. His determination to prove her wrong, to prove him better than her, held him in place when all else failed; and childish though he knew it was, he clung to it beyond all reason.

It had seemed a simple task when he had laid it out. Trapped in a prison of his own making, he could see how he had focused on what he needed to _do_, the actions that needed to be accomplished and not the entirety of what he would need to do. It was a mistake he had made throughout his youth, one he had seen Estel fall prey to more than once, and one he had thought he had outgrown.

And yet—despite everything—he waited, all but a statue on his seat of stone. Anyone who saw him would have mistaken him for part of the scenery. He watched a group of five ascend the southern slope from a place further west. They kept their bare heads bowed and their cloaks close about them. The wind was beginning to pick up again, swirling in fitful eddies, blowing first one way and then the other, like a child who could not decide which toy he wanted to play with. The temperature had dropped four degrees since he started his watch.

The minutes crawled by.

He tried counting, but that just emphasized how much time was passing. He tried reciting songs in his head, but that drew his attention to the silence and the expectation that it should be broken soon. He tried identifying the different plants around him as he sometimes did when forced to wait, but his selection was decided limited. And it reminded him that he was not home, that he was away from home and his brother was not by his side as he should be; and it was thoughts of Elladan he was trying to avoid.

How could he sit here? How could he wait while his twin suffered Valar-know-what, possibly bleeding his life away? How could he live with himself if Elladan died because he did not get there fast enough? If he was dead when he got there?

_I can't. I won't._

He felt it, knew it, but the certainty of that knowledge did nothing to soothe him. It was not time, not his or his brother's. It was not. But would it matter?

Elrohir grabbed onto the rock near him, clutching at the rough stone so the protrusions spiked pain through his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes and tipped his head back, silently pleading with whoever might hear him to grant him the strength to stand still against the screams in his mind, the pain he felt and could not forget. The bond he shared with his twin had lain dormant since they came to these lands; he prayed it was his mind creating these sensations and labeling them: Elladan.

_Please_, he whispered, his lips moving in silent plea.

o/o/o/o/o/o

_Cold stone pressed against his cheek. His eyes fluttered open. Grey stone stood before his eyes, lit oddly by the flickering of fire somewhere behind him. Sounds drifted to his ears, soft at first then growing louder. His dazed mind had a hard time making out what was said. The words were strange to him, yet familiar, far too rough to be elven, too guttural even to be men. . . ._

Orcs!

_Realization slammed through him like a brick wall. Orcs were near him. His eyes widened, and he pressed his hands into the floor. Sand pressed against his palms and clung to his face as he sat up, getting immediately to his feet._

_He swiveled on his heels, still low to the ground but found himself alone. The voices were coming from further down the tunnel along with the firelight, and he relaxed slightly. They did not yet know he was here._

_Moving without any conscious decision to do, he stalked silently toward the orcs. He peered down the tunnel, trying to glimpse them, to discover how many there were, what they were doing, but the way curved, bent, and all he could see were distorted shadows on the far wall. Anger and disgust tightened his mouth, hardened his eyes, tensed his body. Evil, malicious . . . they could not be allowed to live!_

_He would kill them. Kill them for what they had done—_

_Quick as flight, he stood at the cavern's archway. What steps he had taken to get there, he did not remember, but the foul beasts now stood before him and that was all that mattered. His eyes tracked across the space, counting orcs, noting the familiar obstructions, places he knew he could gain the upper hand._

_He looked to the back, then, for he knew that was where he would find most of the orcs. They huddled together, surrounding something he could not see, laughing jeering. His blood boiled. They would die._

_He stalked forward to strike them down, to end each miserable life one after the other, when group of orcs parted. His eyes were drawn to their midst, drawn to a pair of crystal blue eyes that bore into his. In mid-stride, he froze._

_All air left his lungs. All strength left his limbs. He could not move. He could not breathe. All thoughts fled his mind, save one: Nana._

"_Nana," he breathed, the word slipping from numbed lips. Horror, shock, fear, despair, all coursed through him, coiling, colliding, wrapping around him, strangling him. She should not be here!_

_Then he saw the blood. Red blood. _Her_ blood. Bright, stark against the purity of her white gown. Rage colored his vision. He yelled and rushed forward, drawing his sword—prepared to murder the swine that harmed his mother._

_But his hand met empty air._

_The orcs turned at his cry, the closest ones conveying on him like wolves on fresh meat. Too late he realized he was defenseless. He swung at them with his hands, but they were caught before his blows fell. Other hands shoed him back against the cave wall. Their foul stench violated his senses as he struggled against them, squirming, fighting, his eyes locked on his mother._

"_Nana!"_

_His voice echoed back to him, shoved into his ears with the force of his helplessness. Grins, sneers, split the mutilated faces; malicious amusement lit their leering eyes. Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off stone, growing, pounding in his head. Whips, knives, iron prongs, wicked corkscrews, straps—all passed before his eyes as he struggled against unyielding hands._

_Then the crack of a whip—the smack of a club on flesh—and squelch of blood—a scream! He could not see her for the orcs in the way, but he knew what happened. Her broken body haunted his dreams. Blood trailed down the stone floor, a thin stream that meandered towards him slowly, inch by inch. He shuddered and started struggling anew, battering at the hands of the ugly, laughing orcs that bound him. The weight pinning him never slackened. Tears rolled down his face._

_He had failed. He had failed to protect her! What kind of warrior was he? What kind of son? That he should repay the one who bore him, who gave him life, with such ill was torment to his soul; to be forced to observe, unable to hinder, to take even a portion of her punishment upon himself a wrenching pain. It should be him! He had failed._

_His heart burned. Her screams, their laughter . . . their laughter, her screams. . . ._

"_Who is Isildur's heir?"_

_The words stabbed into his ears, hard, unrelenting, demanding an answer. Images flashed through his mind, a series of dark-haired men with silver eyes and grim faces, ending on the innocent face of a smiling child: Estel. Then his father—"No one can know who he is. His identity must remain a secret."_

"_Who is Isildur's heir?"_

_His mother screamed._

"_. . . Isildur's heir?"_

_Secret._

"_Who is . . .?"_

_He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head; slowly, at first, then faster and faster. The room spun and pitched below him but the pressure on his chest never faltered. The pressure on his mind grew._

_His mother screamed._

"_Who is Isildur's heir?"_

Maggot . . . failure . . . lost . . . killer . . . weak . . . reject . . . failure. . . .

_No._

Failure. . . .

"_Isildur's heir or your mother, weakling; who's it to be?"_

_The cruel voice twisted through his mind, stretching, biting; painful. How could he choose? How could he let his mother suffer this torment? How could he deliver a child who relied on his protection to the hands of enemies who would show him no mercy? Love pulled him both ways—love, duty, honor. The mother who bore him, loved him, whom he had promised to protect in his love for her; or the child fate brought, Estel, son of his dear friend, who he had sworn to protect, to keep his secret. . . . To choose one or the other would be his death. To not choose—_

_His mother screamed._

_The bonds of his heart pulled in opposite directions—white pain flared—then he fell back into darkness._

o/o/o/o/o/o

Kalya moved through the woods, familiar yet strange, with practiced ease. It had been years since she had last set foot in this land, a child by the reckoning of any who cared to give the matter such thought. Shirk had not cared about her age; he cared about no one's age. Results were what he wanted—success. Success at any cost was his only goal.

A glance to the side revealed a stepped stone, weathered rock that formed a rough triangle with uneven divots that made climbing its sides simple. For a moment she could see herself, perched upon it, half-crouched with her hands braced atop the point peering into the surrounding wood, sickly green leaves clinging desperately to life in the waning summer months. Then she looked away, shattering the sight. It disappeared as if it had never been and did not reemerge hen she dared a glance back.

She hated these memories—these broken shards from a past she had no wish to recall. The life she had been raised for was gone, banished beyond achievability by her own choice. It was a decision she was at peace with—she was!—and had accepted; the uncomfortable flashes of bitter regret roused by the piecemeal recollections felt disturbingly like opening a coffin and finding someone she believed gone for good still inside.

_This is crazy,_ the girl thought savagely and had a moment's pause as she tried to determine if it was her present or dilemma (as she had intended) or Elrohir's "plan" (which suddenly came to mind) that she referred to with the mental outburst. It could, without doubt, be ascribed to both.

Frowning, she ducked under a low-hanging branch and crouched lightly. She squinted in the almost non-existent light that painted the world in hues of gray and black and fell still. Slight movement attracted her attention amid the static background of trees and resolved itself (with some effort) into living beings. They were, she believed, heading southeast, and she traced ahead of their path for the checkpoint she knew lay nearby. She tagged it—tentatively—nearly thirty paces north of her position and about five east.

It was the fifth patrol she had come upon since parting company with Elrohir. The second she had eliminated with cold efficiency in an effort to maintain the illusion that both escapees were still traveling west, and she debated silently whether or not she wished to repeat that procedure with this group.

Her eyes resolved three people picking their way through the brush like travelers walking across lands strewn with booby traps. Unlikely as that was (and it was unlikely—the Slyntari always knew where they placed their own traps and never made them so numerous in a place they would walk) the girl searched for a new solution. She found two.

Either they were extremely worried about being heard and felt they needed the extra caution to pass undetected, or they were meant to draw attention and were serving as a distraction. If it was the former, she would just move on because no one would believe a group that stupid and inept could surprise an elf. If it was the latter, she had a whole other group to be concerned with that she knew nothing about. And that was dangerous.

At the moment quite thankful for the tree at her back, Kalya slowly around, sweeping her surroundings methodically from left to right. No movement gave away separate forces, and the gathering storm obliterated whatever shadows might indicate another presence. That, combined with the significant number of hiding places gave her pause.

It was possible, of course, that the creeping trio were exactly as they appeared, doing precisely what every other patrol had done; namely, search for her and Elrohir. It was possible they had gotten bored and simply decided to spice up their patrol by amusing each other. But she could not picture such unprofessionalism during an alert. And besides, she was not willing to gamble her life and the success of her mission on stupidity.

Every other unit she and the elf had spotted had contained at least four individuals. If she assumed there was at least that number in every dispatch, there was at least one person unaccounted for. No trouble if he was relieving himself, but serious trouble if he was an archer with a half-way decent aim.

Still, the way she saw it, she had three options. She could stay where she was until she found the missing personnel, possibly allowing more forces to gather; she could continue as she had intended, hoping it was a group of three or to avoid detection by the forth, possibly getting killed and alerting the whole camp that the elf was no longer traveling west with her; or she could try to come up with a plan and try to flush the trap, possibly accomplishing both previous possibilities but this way being responsible for putting the noose around her own throat.

_Damn_, she thought. _I really hate this plan._

It was hard to forget that even if she did not screw up, Elrohir might and doom them both to a slow and painful death; and she might not even know it until her former compatriots closed in around her. Whatever she was going to do, though, she knew she would need to move soon, before her fellow comrades moved first and robbed her of her choice.

But what to do?

The most likely outcome of whatever she tried was a rather inglorious death and failure. Death was something she had learned to expect but failure she could not tolerate. The thought of failing made her stomach roil, and now it was not just Shirk that menaced her but Elrohir as well, glaring at her, predicting her doom based on far more experience than she could claim or refute.

And on top of that, she found the prospect of dying did frighten her. What else save fear had prompted her to abandon the twins when death seemed imminent? It was an unwelcome realization. Part of her assurance in her skill, her bravado n dangerous circumstances had arisen from a fundamental belief that she had nothing to lose. Death was inevitable and close, why avoid it? But now that she had separated herself from the Slyntari—made death that much more assured—she found a promise beyond the shadow, a faint and fleeting hope that she could have more than previously imagined. It was a daunting and frightening thought, and one, she thought furiously, that she did not have time for.

Kalya hissed softly, a slow exhalation through clenched teeth. None of that mattered; none of that _could_ matter. What Elrohir thought of her, what she thought of him—personally, as a warrior, a brother—all of it was irrelevant. None of it had any bearing on the task at hand.

First things first: what did she know? Three of the enemy was visible. There was a high probability of a fourth hidden nearby, a possibility of a fifth. They searched for her and another. They had not been ordered to capture her alive.

Assumptions: they did not yet know where she was; the fourth member was to serve as spotter and probably had a bow. If he got a shot, he would take it; otherwise he would alert his companions. With no light, that meant a birdcall or hand gesture, the latter being most likely. That meant he was nearby. Kalya wished she had thought to pick up a bow from any of her dead. It had not occurred to her after her bow broke when the trap was sprung, but she lamented the oversight now.

Moving carefully, she made a more localized search, this time seeking out only the places that provided good cover within sight of the slow-moving decoy. Moments later, she found him.

He perched on one of the thirteen stone triangles like she had passed earlier perhaps fifteen feet north and east of her position. He crouched on the third lip in read position with his bow in hand and an arrow on the string. That she had walked straight past him without noticing anyone was there sent ice down her spine. If he had heard her passage behind him she would have been dead without even realizing there was trouble.

But he had not, and she was not; and now he was the one oblivious to the danger. He scanned the corridor the previous two dead patrols had occupied—she glanced at the trio, judged their position—and unless she missed her guess, there was another spotter even further north. But this one, her immediate concern, was not looking south and the decoy companions were not overly watchful. They were too focused on their deception to be truly observant. A smile crept across her face as an idea came to her.

Kalya made to move but was halt by the smell of the wind. It was the first substantial breeze to shake the trees in nearly an hour and it smelled like rain. She looked up in time for one of the first drops to hit her chin, then the clouds let loose, pouring large drops of not-quite-frozen water.

The girl looked back to her surroundings and discovered the change in weather had stirred her target. Over the rush and whisper of the rain, she could jut make out a scaling whistle, and she saw him raise his left hand and circle it through the air. She thought, but could not be sure, that someone from the trio repeated the gesture. Then the spotter put up his bow and arrow and abandoned his perch.

She watched, nonplussed, as he disappeared around the rock formation and slunk through the trees and ran to rejoin his compatriots. Then the four moved off at a more normal pace, hitting the checkpoint and fading away into the trees.

For long minutes, she sat where she was and ignored the rain soaking through her clothes, cold though it was. Her eyes rested unseeing on the rock he had just abandoned. Had they been ordered to return to camp when the rain started? But then why had they continued to the checkpoints? Had this little stop been impromptu?

A frown creased her brow. She had never known the rain to curtail operations before. Shirk had always insisted the weather made no difference. Only the weak cowered from rain and cold—but would one expect different from an elf who felt neither extreme that could incapacitate a man nor catch cold that would be the second-born's death? She did not, which seemed to mean someone else had given the order, if order it was, at least to her mind.

_What other orders have been given?_ She questioned in silence. _What other things might have been changed that might trip us up?_

Again, she cursed the plan Elrohir had given her. It held too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. It relied on chance for ultimate success, and that in itself would have prompted her to discard it at its inception; and yet Elrohir would not be gainsaid. She knew it would not—could not—be successful. . . .

The thought trailed off into oblivion, taking with it her pent-up agitation. She was too tired for this, too wearied by recent exertions, and if she, at least, was to fulfill her end of the plan she had a long way to go in a short period of time.

A glance east showed the latest patrol gone from sight—not that she had been able to see them for awhile now. Ice cold water landed on her head and dripped down her face. She shuddered slightly then turned her face the way she needed to go. How many more patrols might have lain in wait along her path? How many would move on now that the rain had come? How many might remain? She dreaded the answers but pushed herself back to her feet and resumed her trek.

The rain formed a shifting curtain before her eyes, graying the black shadows. Her eyes sought out the mountains in the distance, the mountains she had to reach before tomorrow night though a dozen patrols could lay between them, hidden by the rain that was Elrohir's only hope.

_Valar help me,_ she thought dismally. _I must be insane._

o/o/o/o/o/o

The sun had finally disappeared below the horizon and was now visible only as pink and orange streaks in the western sky. The eastern sky was a dark blue one step above black and as yet free of stars. Between them, the sky was a grayish blue-purple. It reminded Aragorn of a bruise.

The ranger took a deep breath and froze as knives stabbed through his chest, sparking matching lances of white light behind his eyes. After a moment, his breath hissed back out through clenched teeth. He could feel the bones shift back more or less where they had been, more a resettling than an actual shift, as his lungs deflated. Left behind with the pain was the nagging sense that he had not gotten enough air, a feeling that was not entirely wrong.

His lightheadedness, he knew, was only partially from the concussion he had suffered in the same fight in which he broke his—it felt like two—ribs. The rest of that sensation came from not being able to inhale properly during physical exertion. Easily his two most annoying injuries, they nevertheless got competition from a third he had suffered no where near as frequently: a broken collarbone; cracked at the very least. That meant, aside from not being able to see properly, he was also in an impressive amount of pain from about the waist up.

_Breath-taking_, he thought ironically, a somewhat demented smile twisting his lips. A soft chuckle accompanied it, but renewed pain killed it, turning it into a grimace.

Feeling another nearby, he lifted his bound hands from his forehead and pried his eyes back open. The face that appeared in his line of vision had dark hair cut about his ears and brown eyes. That his visitor was not Legolas disoriented him for the few seconds it took him to recall the boy's name.

"Are you all right, Strider?" Abyl asked.

"I'm fine, Abyl." He was not, contrary to popular belief, deluded enough to believe his own assertion; he just had no desire to add to the lad's worry when there was nothing he could do. The foster son of Elrond recognized in the Gondorian native the same displacement and nervous helplessness he had felt when Elladan and Elrohir first took him out to ride with the rangers—the same time everything went wrong. "Just a little sore."

Measuring eyes studied him, but the other nodded; he released a breath he had not realized he was holding. "Is there anything I can do?" the youth pressed.

"Where's Legolas?"

"Still helping the South Men." When they had stopped to camp for the night, the guards had taken Legolas and pressed him into service securing the prisoners and horses, lugging packs and other mundane but necessary tasks. The guards that had been set over the prisoners to make sure they did not escape had been instructed to kill both the ranger and Abyl if they so much as _thought_ he was about to try something.

One of his tasks was distributing limited rations to the prisoners, and Aragorn vaguely wondered if he had been ordered to see to his friends last or if the elf had determined the women and children needed the more immediate aid. He glanced to the side and found his friend moving among the women with small bowls, a pail and a ladle (at least that's what he thought it was) and turned his attention back to the lad.

"Talk with me," he instructed softly, finally addressing the other's question.

"How will that help?' Abyl asked dubiously.

Aragorn murmured, "Distracting," and let his eyes drift shut, blocking out the fire that flickered somewhere to his left above his head. Three or four had been kindled about the camp, the largest one used for cooking and situated near the children. He, himself, was situated farthest from the glowing flames along with Abyl, Legolas, and three others, a fact he viewed with both gratitude and regret. Gratitude, because he could escape the painful light; regret, because others were with him and he suspected the shivers the still dropping temperature would induce would cause him far more discomfort than the intrusive light ever would.

He heard Abyl shift to a more comfortable position. "Well, what would you like to talk about?" the youth questioned.

_So long as it keeps my mind off my brothers and away from my dreams, I really don't care,_ the ranger thought but did not say. "Whatever you want," he replied instead.

A moment of silence, then the young man's searching mind hit on a question it fancied. "How long have you been a Ranger?"

"Mm," Aragorn considered. "Must be nearly ten years now."

"That's a long time."

He could not help a smile as his thoughts immediately flashed to his elven friends and family as it almost always did when others made statements about time and age. He said, "Depends on your perspective."

"Is it hard? Being a Ranger, I mean."

"There are easier ways of life," he replied simply. "I would say running an Inn was one of them, but every job has its challenges. I enjoy the Wilds; most of the time it is the solitude which is hardest to bear."

"I don't mind solitude," Abyl said. He continued quickly, almost as if to draw attention from his revelation. "What do you do? I mean, almost everyone has some kind of story about Rangers. Some say they're noble, others trouble. And both have these fantastic tales. In Rohan, we hear most often about wandering vagabonds that trouble the innocent and bring affliction to peaceful lands, and I just wondered . . . I mean. . . ."

"If it is true?" the ranger interrupted when the lad trailed off uncomfortably. The silence persisted and he cracked his eyes enough to catch the other's nod of agreement. He closed his eyes again and in the darkness of his mind considered what he could reveal. "It is no lie that we are a wandering people. Events long ago robbed us of our home.

"The Rangers, you see, are the remnants of Númenor, the Dúnadain, kindred long removed from the Kings of old in Gondor. Once we claimed and dwelt in the lands from Gondor west nearly to the bounds of the sea, and when the kingdom was broken, our race all but wiped out in the wars, we swore to protect the people of the lands that once belonged to us."

"Why?"

"It is our duty."

"Your duty? To a people not your own on lands you no longer claim?"

Abyl's incredulity brought a brief smile to his face but it faded quickly. "The Dúnadain believe that, one day, the King will return and reclaim his throne, reuniting the split kingdom. Until that day, however, we will continue to fight the Shadow that threatens the enslavement of all free peoples."

"Are there very many of you?"

Behind closed lids he could see the faces of men who had fought beside him in battle and fallen. Deep down, he knew the cause to defend the king's land was destroying his people, that, in a way, _he_ was destroying them, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and swallowed hard. "Few, now," he answered.

"Is it dangerous?" Abyl asked, his voice soft, just above a whisper. The change made him want to open his eyes but he lacked the strength. It was all he could do to stay awake and avoid the dreams.

"Often."

"Have you even been in a situation like this?"

A faint smile crept onto the ranger's lips. "A few times."

He expected the lad to ask what had happened and was thrown slightly when he instead asked, "Were you scared?"

He could see, suddenly, the tract he had followed and had to resist the urge to laugh, both because he knew it would hurt and because Abyl would not understand his humor. "Definitely," he answered. "Are you scared?"

After a minute, the young man answered, "A little."

"There's nothing wrong with that, you know," he told the boy.

He heard Abyl release a long, shaky breath. "I know," he murmured. Aragorn remained silent, and after a moment he continued. "It's just . . . I never thought I'd end up here. I've heard some terrible stories helping my Father at the bar and I guess I always thought 'That can't happen to me.' They were stories and stories don't happen to simple people.

"But now I'm in one, and these men killed my mother and my best friend. They're ruthless and we're being taken away to even more of 'em. We'll disappear behind that mountains of theirs, with no hope of rescue, and probably be killed. We'll die. . . . And I don't want to die."

Death actually sounded like a fine idea to Aragorn, and a better idea than some, but he would never tell the boy that. It would only terrify him more and destroy whatever hope he still had since, for whatever reason, he had apparently chosen him as a role model, a moderately unsettling revelation. Besides, he had a rather shrewd idea that any admissions of that nature would somehow reach Legolas' ears. That did not, of course, mean he knew the answer.

He remembered well his last encounter with the Slyntari, and the greater part of that had been spent winding through a dark tunnel under the Misty Mountains, yet it was an experience that had, in one way or another, haunted him for nearly a year. Everything he knew about the Slyntari suggested death was exactly what they would find, and it was what he expected—but only after they had explored every definition of pain known to man.

Regardless of the truth of that expectation, however, he would never give it voice, and especially not in front of the boy. _Young man,_ he corrected mentally, but it did not change the feeling that Abyl was too young to have to go through this. _I never should have come here._

'_And where else would you have gone?' _a stronger voice asked. _'Home? It was Caivern or abandon your brothers. Could you have done that?'_

_There was another inn_, he thought defensively.

'_Yeah, that's great. You could have walked straight into Siirl's group and saved some time. Then you could've simply died at their hands, left the entire village to the Slyntari's tender mercies, and still be no closer to saving your brothers.'_

"Strider?"

He was thankful for the voice that jolted him from his thoughts and his eyes opened of their own accord, fixing blurrily on Abyl's concerned face. A quick blink brought it back into focus. "Why did your parents leave Minas Tirith, Abyl?"

The young man frowned, a perplexed and agitated expression. "They wanted to escape the war."

"They wanted you to grow up in peace," Aragorn stated.

The lad's eyes found his hands. "Well, it didn't work, did it?"

"No," the ranger agreed. "But they had not known it would when they departed. They _hoped_ to find peace away from the Shadow in more distant lands." Brown eyes glanced back up, sensing there was a point and silently demanding he make it. "Life holds very few guarantees, Abyl. The most we can do is decide how we want to live, who we want to be, and hope everything goes well. That hope, whether you realize it or not, makes it easier to get up in the morning, easier to do what must be done. And so long as you are alive that hope exists—that hope for everything to turn out right. All you have to do is hold onto it."

"And that is fine advice, Master Abyl," Legolas jumped in, surprising both humans at his sudden appearance. "The stars shine forever, even if we can't see them, and so long as they do there is hoe left, even if it is a fool's hope."

Abyl smiled and accepted a small bowl of soup with a dip of his head. His eyes darted between the two friends, then, and he retreated with a mumbled "thank you." Aragorn watched his retreat only a second before shifting his gaze to Legolas, who settled down in the lad's vacated spot. He held two more bowls in his hands.

"I'm not hungry, Legolas," the ranger declared, attempting to forestall the elf before he could offer the meager ration.

He got a frown for his trouble. "You haven't eaten since dinner last night, and ate little enough before that. You are no Elf, Strider. You must eat something."

He pushed the bowls away with bound hands, turning his face away to avoid the smell. His stomach churned. "Men can survive on less than you think, my friend."

"And still have the strength to fight at the end?"

"If needs be."

Legolas snorted. "Were you well, human maybe—just maybe—I would believe you. But you are injured so you don't stand a chance."

Aragorn frowned, but he could not summon enough energy to give the expression any force. His friend's assertion was true enough. Were their positions reversed he would be no more willing to accept his answer than Legolas was. And he knew, as his friend did not, that he would get no sleep this night; yet neither could he eat. Even the thought of it made him nauseous.

"Strider?"

He shook his head slightly, sighing and closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, Legolas. I just can't eat right now."

Silence followed. Then he felt his friend shift closer and the elf lowered his voice. "Tell me what I can do."

The pain in that simple plea surprised Aragorn into opening his eyes. Quietly, he searched the blue eyes before him but, though he found a shadow, he saw no hint about what troubled his friend so deeply. _What have I done?_ He questioned silently, a frown creasing his brow.

"There is nothing you can do, my friend," he finally answered. His words increased the elf's agitation and deepened the worry in the blue depths. "What is wrong, Legolas?"

"What is wrong? You tell me there is nothing I can do and ask me what is wrong! You are quiet, withdrawn. I see the pain in your eyes. Do not tell me the shadows that have haunted your every step are gone for I shall not believe it!"

And like the sudden flash of lightning, he understood. The signs, he supposed, were all there, though he had never taken the time to see them, had never cared to look and discover the manner of his decline. But Legolas had looked. The elf, he knew, had been watching him closely, almost ceaselessly, for hints that he was losing himself once more to the horrors of his imagination—the greatest, most tangible reminder of his previous encounter with the Slyntari.

It startled him that he had not seen his friend's dismay sooner, and yet he knew why he had not: the same pain that had pressed away the darkness in his mind had blinded him to the elf's concerns. His heart ached that he had allowed his friend to trouble himself needlessly. Yet he knew, if he were honest with himself, that telling his friend the truth would not free him from his worry. _Nay, it will either double it or shift it, nor diminish it._

He sighed, his eyes once again drifting closed; he could never let Legolas suffer falsely. "They are not gone," he answered wearily. "But I have had little time to think on them."

He could almost see his friend's frown but could not decide if it would hide more ire or hurt He had nearly decided to look for himself when Legolas spoke: "How bad are your injuries?"

"Mm, you know," he said, "scratches."

"Strider, if you expect me to believe. . . . You're joking."

The smile he had obviously failed to hide broke free. "Got you," he taunted.

"I'm going to remember this, human," Legolas promised lowly. "And since you're not too ill to joke, you're not too ill to eat."

"Legolas."

"No, Strider. It's not much and I'll settle for a bite or two, but you must eat."

The truth was the stillness, combined with the comfort and familiarity of being with his best friend without the stress of annoying lights, had done much to loosen the vice-grip his concussion had on his mind. Yet having suffered through it in silence for hours (and well aware it would repeat tomorrow) he was reluctant to do anything that might risk his present ease.

"Come on, Strider."

"All right, all right." Legolas took his hands and started pulling him up before he could realize how much that would hurt. When he did, his eyes shot open—but his arm had already erupted in fire, burning from his fingertips to his shoulder while his chest was being twisted and crushed by a giant, whirling him off into spinning darkness.

He was not sure when Legolas realized his difficulty, was not even sure when he had closed his eyes, but he suddenly registered warmth against his back and heard whispering: "Easy, easy, mellon nin. Easy," though it took him a second to understand the words.

When he finally came back to himself, he was almost surprised to find himself still breathing and his wrists burned from where he had unconsciously pulled against his bonds in an attempt to distract himself from the pain. His chest hurt, too, but it was a faint ache almost completely subsumed by the ire of his broken collarbone. It was another moment before he realized he was, in fact, sitting up.

"Strider?"

"Hmm?" he answered breathily.

"Perhaps you'd better tell me the extent of your injuries before we try to move again."

Despite the pain, he chuckled lightly.

o/o/o/o/o/o

He let the first four patrols pass without making a move. The first he watched to judge security to see if the rain had changed anything that would make his plan impossible. The second and third passed by too early, less than half an hour after the first; the rain had not had a chance to become an enemy, to seep into their clothes and minds, a conspirator with the cold to make their lives miserable. It had not yet driven their attention from their surroundings to their warm beds. The fourth had already boasted five members.

In the moment, when he had judged each group and the sentries upon their approach, he had felt confident of his decision. He would only get one shot at this; it had to be perfect. There would be other patrols coming through later, even more distracted by the cold rain, eager to get warm and dry. He could wait. But as an hour slipped away with no new contacts began to wonder, to doubt . . . to fear.

What if all the patrols had already returned? Neither he nor Sierra had had anyway to know for certain how many had been sent out at the beginning. The girl had seemed certain that there would be many of them; but what if the rain had changed that? Maybe Shirk had not sent as many out or the groups had returned early. Maybe they had returned by the east side. Had he misjudged? Seen folly where it was not? Had he hesitated when he should have moved, let fear blind him when the correct opportunity had already passed before his face? His brother's bruised and bloody face flashed before his eyes. His perch became a cage.

"_Don't you move!"_

He froze, his hands clasped around the rock edges to lever himself out of the dip. His heart races as his eyes darted around for the source of the voice. He had heart it. He could not be discovered now!

"_Don't you move, Elrohir! You never give up your location until everything is ready and you are ready to move or you have decided it cannot work and you are ready to retreat. Do you hear me?"_

Elrohir relaxed as he realized no one had discovered him. The voice he had heard was Glorfindel's and existed only in his mind, a memory more than a thousand years old. He and his brother had been learning about covert strikes—ambushes—and the golden-haired seneschal had decided the best way to instruct on the art would be practical experience. So he had come up with a simple goal for them and let them do the planning, gather the information, scout the best locations.

The whole operation had proceeded according to plan until a problem with loading had delayed the target's departure by more than an hour and a half. When it had not shown as predicted, the younger twin had gotten frustrated and impatient. He had wanted to go see what was taking so long and had been on the verge of abandoning his position when Glorfindel stopped him.

"_Now, are you moving on the target or indicating a retreat?"_

The question, simple and to the point with none of the uncertainties and vagaries of his thoughts, burned through him now as it had then. And, as before, it resettled him to his purpose and he resumed his silent vigil. If worst came to worst and no opportunity presented itself, he knew he could always pull back and follow Sierra to the mountains. It was not what he wanted to do, certainly not an appealing alternative, but the fact that another option existed allowed him to regain some perspective and hold on to his new-found calm.

The rain whitewashed everything around him, creating a pseudo-transparent barrier that hazed objects and people into indistinctive blobs the further from him they ranged. The steady rush of the drops hitting the ground strangely reminded him of home, of the roaring waterfall that always existed in the background but which had long ago stopped registering in his mind. If he concentrated, he could hear individual drops; if he focused, he could see details of the men who waited at the border.

Water dripped from the slight overhang above him to soak his hair and shoulders, flowing every now and again over his face and drenching the tops of his leggings. It meant little to him, the liquid's temperature little more than a variation to tingle his skin, but he knew from years of riding with the rangers and raising Estel that the cold and wet—with an occasional biting breeze pelting drops at them—that the Slyntari were longingly looking towards their beds. He hoped it would make them careless.

What caught his attention, he could not say, but he glanced to the side, looking through the trees and the rain. At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, the dark flash of movement wishful thinking. Then they entered "the corridor"—a stretch of approximately ten paces where his view was unhindered, part of the reason he had chosen this location—and he saw there were four of them. They were staggered, nearly forming a line, but none glanced around at their surroundings.

Their hair was plastered to their heads, color impossible to distinguish, and they hunched in their soaked robes, hugging the sodden material close to them for whatever imagined warmth it might provide. Their heads were half-ducked and they looked around (he could see now) only as far as their eyes could move. Either they believed this area was safe or the cold had driven all such considerations from their minds. Perfect.

He eased carefully from his hiding place, dropping away into the shadows, just in time to be slammed with a gust of wind that felt more like a wall of water. Rain that had gathered somewhere above him dumped across his head and shoulders. He stiffened against the onslaught. It struck him, suddenly, that this was something his little brother would do. The implications of that, however, was something he did not want to think about.

Silently, he moved through the trees and emerged behind the patrol.

o/o/o/o/o/o

He hated sentry-line. It was a long, tedious duty with nothing to recommend it save the fact that one did not have to walk far to return to camp for supper. And on days like this, when the weather was foul enough to make an elf (damned enchanted creatures!) miserable, even that saving grace lost is value.

With the rain pouring on your head and the wind cutting through your bones, that proximity which was you salvation on normal days becomes an unbearable taunt. Time becomes your enemy. Instead of slogging through muddy woods, knowing with each step you take you are that much closer to home, you stand looking out over motionless woods knowing that only the passage of creeping minutes can end your suffering.

He pulled his wet cloak tighter about him, trying to bleed away some of the cold by giving it less space to gather, but the wind blew and he shivered all the harder. He hated to the feel of the ice water running down the back of his neck, slipping under his cloak to soak anything that might have remained dry. He clenched his teeth and squinted through the downpour towards the trees.

Dark, forbidding shadows against the slate of the sky, they were indistinguishable in the dark of night. The few fires that still burned, heedless of the driven rain, were bright points that drew more light than they gave off. It was all but impossible to see any that walked from the woods. More often than not they rose like avenging ghosts from the intervening gloom, wet and even more miserable-looking than he, though at least they could move to try and stay warm. . . .

He squinted harder as he thought he caught movement out ahead of him. It disappeared with the effort, and then reappeared moments later. He thought he saw the lighter gleam of wet flesh amid the darkness but was not positive. More minutes passed, and in that time, the glimpses grew certain. Five individuals approached, hoods down.

"It's a patrol!" someone to his left called. He nodded silently. That is was.

Nearly ten minutes had passed before the patrol ascended the slope to reach the sentries and pass into the camp beyond. The leader looked up and nodded as he passed, each one after duplicating the gesture with varying degrees of goodwill.

The last to pass barely raised his head and huddled into his cloak. This as a board, the lad looked like a good, strong breeze would knock him over. He exchanged a grin with the sentry on his right, laughing quietly. Boy, them youths got smaller all the time.

He looked back out over the sea of darkness. Maybe they would be relieved soon and a new batch of suckers could suffer the cold and the dark and the wet. He squinted and stomped his feet. Maybe.

o/o/o/o/o/o

He followed the quartet further into camp, doing his best to blend in. He was not sure how far they traveled together or if they checked in before retiring to their tents, but he knew he did not want to be here when roll was called.

Elrohir glanced back towards the sentries. None of the men seemed to be looking towards the camp. The quartet he followed still had not glanced back to see anyone following them. As few people as possible were wandering between tents and none but one or two of those paid any attention to their surroundings, each being more intent on getting where they were going, completing their errand, and getting out of the rain.

Fear, it seemed, did not completely counter human nature.

The elf glanced quickly around, taking one last chance to make sure no one was paying him undue attention, then he ducked down the first side passage he came to and adopted the same quick, short steps everyone else hurrying about had used. He tried to remember what Sierra had told him about the various color-codings, but found even his elven eyes baffled by the system and wondered how the humans could manage it.

He ended up finding an occupied dwelling and marked that color-tab in his mind. Then he ducked into a darkened and apparently empty one several rows down and listened. All he heard was the rain.

Wood was stacked to one side, near the entrance but far enough back that it would not be soaked if the door was opened or came open due to the wind. He knew he could not remain here as the person it belonged to would probably return from duty soon, but he needed a place out of sight to consider his next move. If he could just remember the tent Sierra had taken them to which was empty, he thought it would be all right.

He shook his head in frustration. _It's no use, but I can't stay here._ He thought he began to understand some of the girl's skepticism when he claimed he would hide within the cam an entire twenty-four hours waiting for her to get into position. The suspicion that she could have managed it even without the rain did nothing to improve his mood. _Though the rain is probably more of a hindrance than a help to _staying_ hidden._

The dark-haired being glanced around the room again. It did not look like its owner had been here in a while. It was, he reasoned, perfectly possible that the tent's resident had died in the course of the day. Surely, if that was so, no one would come empty it and reassign it before tomorrow, especially if that other still stood open after several days.

Pursing his lips in annoyance, Elrohir debated the advisability of moving back into the gloom. There was another tent he was supposed to look for but he knew he would never find it quickly. The more he moved around, the more likely he was to get caught. And he did not have a better idea. Sighing, he determined to stay where he was.

Pulling his sword, he sat with the blade across his lap and braced his back against the bed, then prepared to wait the night—ready to kill anyone who walked through that door thinking to claim his bed.

o/o/o/o/o/o

_The house was quiet, dark. Only a few lamps yet burned in the airy halls, their faint glow lending an eerie light to the beautiful sculptures he passed. Little or no light made it in through the windows. It was late at night and everything seemed peaceful; so what had woken him?_

_He paused in mid-stride, cocking his head to the side and listening for anything that sounded out of place. There was nothing but he kept walking, his feet automatically taking him to Estel's room. There was a vague idea in the back of his mind that his little brother might need his help but be too uncomfortable to ask for it. It had happened before._

_At the door, he paused again. Turning his ear to the door, he again listened for any unusual sounds from within the chamber—or even some usual ones, to put his mind at ease. At least, the part of his mind screaming he had no cause to go into Estel's room_

I'm his older brother. That's cause enough,_ he decided, and he turned the knob, pushing the door inward._

_He only opened it a crack, at first, peering inside between a space barely large enough to wedge his head. The flickering light of candles, dozens of them, was the first thing to meet his eyes, and it surprised him, worried him even, for a nagging fear rose in he back of his mind. Why would Estel have so many candles lit and still burning at this hour of the night?_

_Unable to see the bed from his position, he pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked in. He could see the bathing chamber, see more pinpoints of light flickering within. He looked at the bed. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought it was empty, but only because Estel was not immediately visible within the tangled folds. The bed was the only object in the room still swathed in shadow. He watched a moment, but the night's stillness stretched to the bed's occupant. He smiled._

_He still remembered when the human boy first came to Rivendell, when nightmares would wake him from his sleep and chase him from his bed. The first month he had run to his room, or Elrohir's, or Ada's, and then he did not come any more._

"_How about you go back to your own room, Estel? Wouldn't you like to sleep in your own room?" Estel had never said no. He could not remember how they had discovered the nightmares still plagued the child, that every night he would flee his bed but stop at the door, but they had, and one of them had checked on his every night after. He could not remember when the ritual had stopped._

_Moving quietly, not wishing to wake his sleeping brother, he moved across the room to the first candle and blew it out. The flame vanished and he moved to the next, and the next, systematically working his way around the room. Yet when he extinguished the last light, plunging the room into darkness, Estel gasped._

_He whirled. A frown marred the human's face. His eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids. His head jerked back in distress. "No," the boy moaned. "Please. . . ." _

"_Estel?" He reached out a hand to touch him, shake him—_

"_No, don't! Please, don't!"_

—_and recoiled. "Don't what, Estel? Don't what? Wake up, little one. Look at me." But though he pleaded, he could not bring himself to touch his human brother. Distress radiated from the young one, but he dared not touch him. "Estel—"_

_The human thrashed, fighting his blankets, flinging his head from side-to-side. "No! No-no, please. Elladan—"_

_A choked sob cut off the cry, but he refused to hold back any longer. Climbing onto the bed, he crouched directly next to his brother and pulled the struggling boy into his lap. He weighed less than he remembered but he just held him close. "Sh, Estel. Wake up, little brother. It's just a nightmare. I'm here now; it's okay."_

_But the boy just fought harder._

"_Estel!" He grabbed the man's arm before he could fling himself from the bed. Panicked silver eyes, haunted and wild, flew open to latch onto his face. A scream tore from the other's throat, terror-filled, and fear spiked through his heart. What had happened to make him act this way? "Estel!" he snapped, worry making the word sharper than intended._

"_Don't hurt me," Estel begged, holding up his hands to fend off a strike. "P-please, Elladan? Please don't hurt me. I'll be good."_

"_I would never hurt you, Estel! What are you talking about?" But even as he spoke, memories arose. When Estel was seven, he had pushed him to hard and broken his arm; and at ten, he took their roughhousing to far; then what about all the times he had yelled, all the times he had made the boy cry? "I love you, Estel."_

_Tears streamed down the young man's cheeks as he shook his head, his eyes wide and petrified. "N-nooo, please. . . ." He whispered another word, his lips barely moving, and he had to lean forward to catch it: "monster."_

_What?_

_He froze, his thoughts and feelings a confused jumble. He had never—He would never—Silver eyes stared back at him, terrified, haunted, condemning him with every tear that slide down his young cheek, now covered in stubble, now clear and smooth. Monster. . . ._

_He gasped—choked—and tore his gaze fro the huddled child, only to lock with distressed blue eyes. His own, he realized with sick fascination, just as confused and hurt as he felt. What had happened? Why was Estel acting like this . . . ?_

_The thought trailed off into silence as he stared transfixed at his image. The skin was different, a mottle green, specked with yellow and brown. The nose was broken, half-decayed. The teeth that shone in his open mouth were yellow, the gums back and rotted. The hair started further back on his forehead. But the eyes . . . the eyes were what stole his breath. They were red, a rich, dark red; red like blood. . . ._

_He glanced at Estel, and screamed._

o/o/o/o/o/o

The camp was quiet. What little conversation there had been had died out as the tired prisoners decided the best thing to do was sleep. Even the guards had more or less relaxed though five still stood guard.

Seated on an edge, Legolas only had to gaze one direction to see all of the prisoners. With few exceptions, the men, women, and children had formed groups so they could share body heat through the night as only the Slyntari had blankets to guard against the chill and the fires were too small to provide everyone with adequate warmth.

Abyl had bedded down with the three Rohan men shortly after water had been brought around after the meal, he quartet situated as close to the distant fire as they could get. Conversely, it was also as far away from the strangers as their bonds would let them go. The elf had not quite decided which reasoning had won out in the villagers' minds though he strongly suspected the latter. He was just glad their obvious distrust of anything connected with him or Aragorn had not forced the lad out in the cold.

His eyes trailed from the boy to the head cushioned on his lap. His hand smoothed idly through tangled locks of brown hair spread over his legs, taking its opposite with it by virtue of the ropes that bound his wrists. Blood matted some of it and it was only after he had looked at the cut himself (despite Aragorn's protests) that he had admitted it was not as bad as he had feared. That did not mean, however, that there were not plenty of other injuries to trouble over.

When Aragorn had told him he had a broken collarbone and at least one broken rib to go with his concussion, he had been unable to stop the fear that raced through him. Dozens of images, ideas raced through his mind of how the Slyntari would use these injures to their advantage. He knew it was an aid they hardly needed, and he feared what effect it would have on his already battered friend.

_He still bears the scars from their last encounter, injuries that have no had enough time to fully heal._ The possibility of what this latest confrontation would do to the human terrified him.

The elf stilled his hands and let them rest of the ranger's right shoulder. His eyes studied the man' face, noting the pain that tightened it even in sleep. He lay on his left side to keep from putting pressure on his broken ribs, and using the elf's legs as pillows was the best they could do for the collarbone while considering the ribs. The human's bound hands gave him no chance to truly relax on his back and they were pulled up near his head because that was where he found the most comfort. Negotiating a semi-comfortable position the human _could_ sleep in, however, was infinitely easier than convincing him _to_ sleep.

_Stubborn human_, he thought fondly. But he suspected he knew why Aragorn did not want to sleep: those images that weren't gone that he hadn't had time to dwell on.

A cold breeze swept across the plains, rustling the grasses and bending the flames. He felt a shudder go through the body beneath his hand, a tense spasm, and heard the man's breath catch. The human pulled in on himself in an attempt to keep warm but it was not long before the fine tremors reappeared. He wished he could do more, but his own bounds hands limited his options.

He hunched further over the sleeping figure, hoping to bring more warmth through greater proximity. It was an uncomfortable position to hold for any length of time but he would gladly suffer a stiff neck and aching back if it brought any measure of warmth or comfort to his friend.

Still hunched, he looked up at the stars. They were bright against the velvety black background of the night sky and he took solace in their light.

"Do you think my brothers can see the stars tonight, Legolas?" Aragorn had asked earlier, shattering the thought that the human had been going to sleep.

Legolas had glanced toward the mountains, looking for what he still was not sure, and then looked at his friend. "I don't know," he had said.

"I hope they can. Earendil is bright tonight."

"He is," the blond archer had agreed. "But you aren't supposed to be looking at the stars. You're supposed to be sleeping—like every other sensible Man here."

"I can't sleep."

"Of course you can. Just close your eyes and relax."

Aragorn had snorted. "Sure. We'll trade—I'll give you my broken bones; you'll give me your Elven stamina, and we'll see how well you relax with your arms bound awkwardly before you."

"I'm sorry, Strider—"

But the man had raised his hands and waved him off, the motions hindered by the ropes. "Stop, my friend. If I'm not allowed to apologize, neither are you."

"Then let's skip the apologies and find a comfortable way for you to sleep."

That had not been the end of it, of course. The ranger had quarreled with him for at least another twenty minutes though he could no longer remember all the arguments the other had used. Likely, most of them were stupid, the results of a mind desperately seeking any point of contention, and many of them (he thought he remembered) had deviated from the subject on tangents.

He laughed softly, remembering other times when the young adan had successfully distracted him from his intended purpose. _They taught you well, human,_ he allowed easily. _Valar help us but they taught you well._

"They," of course, were the twins, and his blue eyes drifted back towards the mountains, distant even to his far-seeing gaze but massive enough to be visible to every member of their company. They looked to him as forbidding as the mountain fence of Mordor though he knew that was simply an association he had made: like the Black Gates, once he passed to the other side of the White Mountains he would never leave again. _Unless, of course, they decided to take me to Mordor._

A shudder ran through his lithe body, stirring Aragorn in his sleep, as the very name of that dark place invoked every horror his mind could conceive. It was a land of nightmare and terror and he never wanted to step foot inside it. Death awaited all who dared enter that forsaken land, and the Dark One never granted his enemies easy deaths.

In his mind, the two lands somehow became akin. It was nothing he could pinpoint or explain but it was there, like a great, black cloud obscuring the sky. Everything he knew of the Slyntari pointed to their ruthlessness, their brutality, their cruelty. Had they done to Elladan and Elrohir what they did to Aragorn? What other horrors those blights on humanity have inflicted on the exuberant twin sons of Elrond during their extended captivity? It was something he did not want to contemplate and yet his mind danced with dark possibilities.

_No, Aragorn_, he silently told his friend. _I don't think Elladan and Elrohir can see the stars tonight. And knowing what I know of Shirk, I don't think they've seen them in a long time and probably won't see them ever again._

His thoughts thus burdened, his eyes tracked a small black dot for several minutes before he consciously noted it. It was many minutes more before it resolved sufficiently for him to identify it: a bird.

The elf prince frowned ever so slightly, wondering why a bird, any bird, would fly north across a grassland in the middle of the night in the midst of winter. He tried to think if he had even seen any birds behave thus, or if he knew of any, but he was a wood-elf and a wood-elf who had only rarely ventured beyond his realm before meeting Aragorn and the questions stumped him. If there were birds who migrated north in the winter, at night, alone, he had never heard of them.

Aragorn shifted again, then, and a quiet sound of distress escaped from the back of his throat. Lines of pain had etched themselves onto his face and Legolas was not sure if they were products of his mind or his body. He watched the other closely, looking for a sign that his friend needed to be woken, but for the moment, the ranger was still, the difficulty apparently passed.

Suddenly, the man jerked back, trying to escape. In the instant he moved from his side to his back, the elf prince saw that his friend would scream and clasped his hands over the other's mouth. The muffled cry reached his ears and silver eyes flew open as pain flared through the prone body and wrenched it from sleep. Panic—

"Sh, easy, Strider. It's me, it's Legolas. Easy, mellon nin. Sh, it's just me. Everything's alright." He removed his hands from Aragorn's mouth as awareness overcame the blind panic of his waking and reached out to catch his friend's trembling hands. "Everything's alright," he repeated, as much for himself as the dark-haired human before him. His elbows bracketed the man's head as he held both their hands to the other's chest. He felt when the human's heartbeat finally slowed to a more normal rhythm.

Aragorn exhaled shakily and tipped his head back to catch the elf's eyes. "What reality do you live in, mellon nin?"

"What?"

"That this is alright," his friend concluded.

He snorted. "This one, apparently," Legolas informed the ranger. "In an ideal one, you'd actually listen to me."

The human blinked slowly, apparently thinking. "That wouldn't help," he decided finally. "Because it was your fault we got into this mess."

"How do you figure that?" the fair-haired elf demanded defensively.

"You—" But Legolas had realized what had been said and quickly overrode him: "No, no! Never mind. I don't want to know."

"But you said—"

"I chanced my mind," he reported imperiously.

Aragorn smiled impishly. "All right."

Silver eyes closed and the man took a deep breath to help him relax. Legolas glanced up (looking for he knew not what) in time to see the bird land on one of the guard's outstretched arms. He saw something taken from a pouch about the animal's slender leg and carried to the group's leader.

"At least I'm not cold anymore," the ranger murmured amusedly.

"That's good," he answered distractedly, his eyes still fixed on what was going on at the other side of the camp. He felt Aragorn stir but did not release him.

The Slyntari captain accepted the note with barely a glance. His dark eyes scanned the scrap of paper, and then he looked to one of his men and snapped an order Legolas' sharp ears could not quite discern. He wished he had gotten Aragorn to teach him to read lips as he had intended.

"Ready the horses," a quiet voice said at his elbow.

"What?" He looked down to find the ranger peering across the camp.

"He said, 'Ready the horses,'" Aragorn repeated.

Legolas glanced between the men and his friend, noting that two of the Slyntari moved to do just that. "Are they going to rouse the whole camp, then?" He doubted the children could make another long march so soon. They, at least, needed more rest. He glanced sidelong at the ranger.

The dark-haired man was staring at the Slyntari with a peculiar look on his face. "No," the human whispered. "No, just us, I think."

Before the elf prince could question that, the leader had barked a command and the guards closest to the friends seized them and dragged them to their feet, severing the ropes that bound them to the stakes with quick swipes of sharp blades. The man's fingers dug painfully into the flesh of his arms and he heard Aragorn hiss as they were both propelled across the camp. Four horses were lead forward, a couple tossing their heads in agitation, hastily packed with a portion of their supplies.

They were stopped before the leader, who studied them with piercing eyes, his gaze lingering a moment on Aragorn. He snapped his fingers and waved a hand back he way they had come. "Bring the boy!" he ordered sharply "Get them on that demon horse."

Ardevui took exception to that moniker and lashed out at a man who passed too close behind her, the impact breaking a few of the man's ribs before he was thrown backwards. The on holding her bridle hit her upside the head for her actions and struck her again when she tried to bite him. The Slyntari then pushed Legolas forward, willing to let the elf take whatever else the mare would dish out, but she still though she did pin her ears back against her head.

"Easy, my girl," he murmured to her softly in elvish. They wrestled him atop the horse, and then manhandled Aragorn up behind him. A quickly bit off cry told him they were not gentle about it and fury ignited in his gut.

The captain studied them carefully as more ropes were wrapped about the pair, binding each to the other and to Ardevui though their hands were never unbound. "My lord wishes very much to see you again, Ranger," he said finally, malicious amusement in his eyes. "He's been ever so eager to talk to you about some . . . mutual friends."

Legolas felt Aragorn stiffen behind him and his own blood ran cold, both knowing instinctively who those mutual friends were. Then the man turned away and quickly mounted his own stallion. Abyl was held by the man's second on the third horse and a random guard wearing the black and red slashed robes of the Slyntari rode the third.

"Say good-bye to your new friends, Ranger. It's probably the last time you'll ever see them."

What answer Aragorn would have made, Legolas never knew, for they were suddenly pulled into a gallop and replying to petty, self-important men became a very low priority.


	24. Betrayal

Hey y'all! Four months is a record for me (and not a good one) but it's finally here. I can't vouch for quality as I haven't read through it yet. I hope I caught most of it as I typed, but. . . . Experience dictates otherwise, I just can't read through it right now and I don't have a beta, so please forgive my mistakes.

**Important Notice:** I will no longer be responding to reviews on fanfiction.Much as I despise their rules, there's really not anywhere else I wanna post so I'd rather not get kicked off. That said, I've come across two possible solutions, and I want to know which you prefer. Now this is important. My last vote didn't go so well.

I can **_(1) post all review responses on livejournal_** or _**(2)** **send out all review responses as one big email. **_Think about it and let me know. You're not getting any responses to reviews until I have a majority. (g) BTW, if you want email, be sure to give me your email address in the review. I'll let you know next chapter what I've decided (or rather, what you've decided).

Though to answer a question: about six months has passed from the beginning of False Reality to now. We're coming up on March 1st, and if we're not, I need to go back and change some stuff.

I think that's it. If I remember anything else I'll post it on my profile page. If you didn't know, that's where I post updates on my writing. Delays, reasons, and hope for the next chapter can be found there, probably weekly.

Now, nit-picky stuff done, enjoy the chapter. (p.s. let me know if it sux.)

**Chapter 24**

_There was a murmur of voices. He could hear the rise and fall of their speech, there but indistinguishable, like the babbling brook running just out of sight._

_He opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. Darkness met his gaze and it took him a moment to notice the light, and several more to realize the shadows were the boughs of trees above him. How he come here? And where _was_ here?_

_Slowly, feeling tired and heavy-limbed, he rolled onto his side and saw two figures kneeling, their attention focused groundward. With a start, he recognized them both: Elrohir and Estel! But how? He thought he was alone. . . ._

_Memory eluded him and the wisps he snatched at disappeared like morning fog under the midday sun, fading from his waking mind like a dream, leaving naught but confusion in its wake. He frowned, but the expression gained him no clear idea of how he got here. Where had he been before here?_

"_Ha! I won!"_

"_Deluded, brother: I let you win!"_

"_Don't take it out on me, Elrohir. 'Tis not my fault you're no good at dice."_

"_Ai! The callousness of youth! Elladan, why don't you play?"_

"_What?" he croaked after a startled moment to realize who his twin was addressing. The name sounded strange to his ears. His head pounded. His limbs felt like lead. The thought of moving—_What happened to me?

"_You should not have drunk so much, brother," Estel chided. "Father warned you."_

"_As did I," Elrohir added, not the least sympathetic. "Now, up! You must play with us at dice."_

"_And we'll make it interesting." A wicked, mischievous gleam he recognized well lit Estel's silver eyes. "Every time you lose, you must answer a question. Swear that you won't lie."_

"_Estel!" exclaimed Elrohir, shocked. "We would do not such thing. You wound me, brother."_

"_Come, Elladan. Will you not play?"_

_He stared into Estel's pleading eyes, warring within himself, with the weakness he felt in his body, then sighed. "I will play."_

"_Then come, brother," Elrohir bid merrily as a brilliant smile creased the young human's face. "The ground is too soft to play dice over there."_

_He closed his eyes trying to marshal his strength. Even the allusion to last night's drinking could not account for how he felt, he was sure. Perhaps a hangover on top of six months in the Wilds with the rangers while pursuing orcs, goblins, and trolls east to west without rest in between—unless Ada gave him a sleeping draught? But no, Lord Elrond never drugged anyone after over indulgence, especially not his own sons._

_He took a deep breath and rolled up on his arm, shifting to his knees at the top to slowly drag himself across the six feet separating him from his brothers. Once he got there, he settled into a lotus position._

_Elrohir and Estel looked up at him with identical grins. "First one to thirty-one wins," Elrohir announced. Estel shoved the dice into his hands with a hearty "You go first."_

_He glanced down, shook his hand, and dropped the dice. They struck the packed dirt and bounced. A black mist seemed to cover his eyes, covering the land in darkness, blotting out the trees, his brothers' smiling faces, the sun, taking him back to where that thing lived with fire and ice—_

_He shook his head and stared—and the darkness was gone. Both his companions were staring at the dice, and for a moment he could do naught but stare, unable to believe they had not seen the shadow, felt the darkness._

"_Double sixes, brother, not bad."_

_He watched as Elrohir picked up the dice and repeated his motions, shaking his fist and then releasing the cubes to skitter across the earth. A smile played about his lips, a smirk. Not once did he look up from the game or glance in his twin's direction. It was like he was not even there. Then the younger elf groaned and his eyes finally did move, flicking over to Estel. "Your turn, little brother."_

"_I'll beat you both," the human taunted. "Games of chance are the specialty of Men, after all."_

_Double sixes._

_He head the banter, cast his die, watched their faces, but thought they never failed to solicit his participation, they never once glanced his direction, never once commented on his lay save to announce his score. Could not Elrohir feel his fatigue, his confusion? Did not Estel notice how quiet he was? Though Elrohir was his twin, Estel was usually the first to notice deviations in his behavior, so close did he observe the elder twin. Why did neither see now? Was it what they expected?_

Uume kaure an amin . . . Uume kaure an amin. . . .

_His gaze drifted towards the forest as his mind raced and the words repeated over and over. His brothers' voices, their ceaseless babble, stopped registering in his ears, their words unimportant._

Uume kaure an amin . . . Uume kaure an amin. . . .

_The wind blew gentle through the trees, pulling their green boughs in a dip toward the south. It whispered in his ear, a low, soothing call, and he let his eyes rest on the lone tree that stood before him, the lone thing that stood out crisp and clear, beautiful, young, unblemished, verdant and full of life. Its bark was smooth. This tree, more than any of the others, knew no pain, no sorrow. It, alone, was innocent of the horrors in the world._

_From that perfection stepped a maiden, a beautiful elf-maiden, and his eye was caught. His heart and mind eased, and his breathing caught. Her gown, whiter than the purest snow, seemed to float over top the soft grasses and flow about her slender form. Her golden tresses hung in a smooth cascade down her back and waved, the pure color catching the sun and blazing about her face. Her pale, creamy skin seemed to glow. But it was her eyes that held him, brightest blue, clear, sparkling with the light of her soul, deep and boundless, joyful . . . and he knew them._

_Naneth._

_Yet his lips would not form the words, his lungs would not draw the air, and his mind would not stir his tongue. She reached towards him, and he longed to get up and run to her but his body would not move, would not release him from this strange paralysis that held him._

Uume kaure an amin. . . .

"_Thirty-one!"_

_He jumped. The words seared through his mind—the sudden crack of a whip, the sudden boom of a heavy tome striking the ground, the shock of a sudden burst of thunder just overhead—jolting him from his thoughts. His eyes darted to his youngest brother automatically, just as quickly darting back—but she was gone._

_Celebrian was gone. Gone, as if she had never been._

"_You know what that means, brother." Fingers on his shoulder drew his eyes away from the empty space previously occupied by his mother, and his dazed blue eyes landed on the smiling visage of Estel, closer than before and looking straight at him. "It means I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer."_

"_What do you want to know?" He was almost surprised his voice worked. It sounded strange to his ears, hoarse, not his own, but neither Elrohir nor their human tag-along seemed to notice._

"_What is my true name and lineage?"_

_Silence reigned. He blinked, thrown. Of all the things he had expected his little brother might ask, that was not it. Did not Estel already know he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnadain of the North, heir of Isildur and destined King of both Gondor and Arnor? But, n . . . Estel was but seventeen summers, yet a boy even among his people and not yet come to manhood. That information was not his yet._

_Why had he thought the boy possessed such knowledge? Why, when he heard the question, did his mind flash to a man many years older, with deep silver eyes that bespoke pain better forgotten? Was it the future he saw, one which could be prevented?_

_He stared into the eager eyes of his young foster brother and felt himself flounder. What was he to say? Estel deserved to know the truth—his identity had never been meant to be withheld indefinitely—but was the boy ready for this burden? A part of him wished to spare the young man the weight of his heritage; a part wished him to know and come into his own._

_But—"Why do you ask this now? You've never shown any interest before?"_

"_I may change my mind. I want to know now."_

"_Perhaps you should wait and ask Ada."_

"_You lost, Elladan. 'Tis you who must tell me."_

_He opened his mouth to answer his little brother but his father beat him to it: "His identity must remain a secret." He closed his mouth, swallowed the truth and tried again. "Ada will tell you when you are ready. Ask me something else."_

"_I don't want to know anything else, Elladan!" Estel protested. "You're not following the rules."_

"_I am sorry, gwador nîn, but I cannot answer that question." He glanced at Elrohir, expecting him to back him up, but the younger elf was smiling at him, his eyes seeming to say "Go on, tell him."_

"_Elrohir, make him tell!"_

"_Come on, brother," the younger twin coaxed easily. "It is his name, after all. He has a right to it."_

"_See?" Estel pressed, drawing his attention from his twin by moving closer, nearly sitting on his lap. "You promised."_

_. . . you promised. . . . _

"Elladan, you promised not to do this, I am a man now. You cannot be with me all the time. You cannot always protect me. I must learn to do things on my own. Be at peace, brother. You taught me well." Silver eyes stared at him earnestly, willing him to understand, silver eyes filled with love and understanding, pleading with him to let him go, let him face the world on his own turns, silver eyes pleading to let him prove to himself that he was old enough, finally old enough. . . .

_Silver eyes that hid his fear of failure in their depths, fear of failure, fear of disappointing his family . . . fear he could not find in the eyes that stared so insistently into his own._

_He jerked back, sprawling, and shouted, "You're not my brother!" His eyes were wide as he struggled to put distance between himself and the imposter. "You're not my brother," he repeated, quieter, hoping the words would keep the thing at bay—_

"_Elladan!" Worried, scolding, shocked._

_But he did not understand. Elrohir could not understand. This was the enemy's doing, the enemy's game. Estel's true identity had to stay a secret. He could not tell. He must not! "Nay, my brother." How close had he come to that which must remain unspoken, unthought lest that thought betray him. . . ._

"_Elladan!"_

_He froze, his twin's anger slicing through him. Elrohir almost never yelled at him. Blue eyes looked into seething, wounded blue._

"_Look what you've done!" Elrohir hissed._

_His eyes darted to the human by reflex. For a moment he stared into large silver eyes. In that moment, he saw pain, betrayal, and the glitter of tears—then the boy was gone. He reached for him, wanting nothing more than to take back the hurt, but the other was out of reach, fleeing among the trees._

"_Estel. . . ." _

o/o/o/o/o

The silence pressed against him, smothered him, rang within his ears and twisted through his mind. It shouted; it called; it leered, jeered, and laughed but it was nothing—emptiness, loneliness . . . false.

Elrohir jerked awake, startling to realize he had fallen asleep, even more troubled to see by the light that fought through the sand-colored tent that many hours had passed. His mind tripped over the thousand things that could have happened, that could have gone wrong, that could have been the death of his win as he struggled to catch up to what was as opposed to what he last remembered.

_If I had been found. . . ._ He would have woken up in chains, every hope of saving his brother gone. Ice shivered down his spine.

The elf shifted forward, getting to his feet with graceful ease despite his sleep fogged brain, then eased forward in a crouch. The rain had stopped; what eluded his memory was _when._ The last thing he remembered was the steady plop of heavy water droplets against the taut canvas; the cessation of which, he thought, was what had woken him, but it had taken time to penetrate his brain and register in his mind. But how much?

Another shiver coursed down his spine at the horrid possibilities which played out before his mind's eyes. _It doesn't matter now_, he told himself firmly. _I'm awake now. What ifs don't matter._

That confidence turned to stone in his gut as he reached the tent's entrance and sidled to the side to look out unobtrusively. Perhaps twenty Slyntari thronged the walk further down the row. As he watched, three entered a tent, weapons drawn. A fourth walked in the doorway, watching ready to sound the alarm if there was trouble; then two reemerged, flanked by the tent's occupant and followed by the third, the leader, who motioned quickly, moving the group quietly to the next tent in line. A quick glance in the opposite direction showed it was only the one group searching—at least on this row.

He retreated to the far side of the tent and sat. Ten tents separated him from the search party. He had time; he needed to figure out his next move. It was obvious they were searching the camp. More likely than not, they were doing so in the hope of catching him. The question, then, was if this was a normal procedure, routine as far as the situation was concerned, or if they had been alerted to his presence. He struggled against assuming Sierra had sold him out but the thought lingered, hovering in the back of his mind.

Elrohir immediately dismissed any thought of trying to pass himself off as a Slyntari. They still kept their hoods lowered and the pale sunshine which lit the camp all but banished shadows. Escaping out the back, then, and slipping was his only choice, bar announcing his presence to the entire camp—and that was a choice he could not afford.

The thought that this could all be a trap fluttered through his mind, but the Slyntari were now but a tent away; he was out of time and options. If he wanted even a chance of completing his mission, he had to wait for the girl to get in position, and the enemy could not find him before that.

A quick glance showed everything where the previous owner had left it, then he was slithering beneath the edge of the tent's rear wall, into the dubious safety of the open air.

o/o/o/o/o

Kalya leapt too late to avoid a vine that suddenly appeared before her. It caught her foot, upsetting her balance, and she crashed to the forest floor on all fours. For a moment, a double heartbeat, she froze, listening for any sign that her presence had been noticed, then she was up again and running.

The trees flashed past her, blurring, each exactly like the next, all flaking bark and brooding, empty branches. She remembered the woods north of Rivendell: the vibrant leaves, the sturdy trunks, the quiet voices whispering of more than death or despair, of joy and light and love, so different from anything she had known in Mordor. It was the difference between night and day, and se knew which she preferred. But it also reminded her of Strider, of Aragorn, and the reason she was here, running through this dead wood.

Her jaw clenched as she forced herself to run faster. She cut seemingly randomly around obstacles, weaving a path around tree, rock, and bush that found meaning only in her mind. Many paths could take her where she needed to go, many of them crossed, merged, split off in different directions. Some were not even paths at all. Yet she ran them, leaping what she could not dodge, making her way relentlessly towards the mountains which loomed ever larger before her.

Not for the first time, she cursed herself for telling Elrohir it would take no more than a day to reach the mountains. She ached and her legs burned; too well did she remember all the running she had done in the last couple of days and how little rest had come between them. Her eyes were gritty, like sand poured over a little water and spread across marble. More than anything, she wanted to rest, to lie down and let oblivion take her, but she ran on.

The sun sank inexorably into the west, each minute taking it closer to the horizon, every moment moving her closer to the time of reckoning when their plan would succeed or fail. Success meant freedom and failure meant torment and death, but the words were as close as she got to understanding, here mind too tired to comprehend the idea's breadth.

Fearing the future was a mental task beyond her ability. She had but energy enough to concentrate on one thing: _reach the mountain_. Over and over, those three words repeated in her mind, forcing out all other thoughts through strength of will. Her arms and legs trembled; her breathing was fast and harsh. Sweat sheened her body and pain thrummed between her ears, through her temple, pounding in him with her racing heart. She had not felt so poorly since the last time she was poisoned, but that meant nothing. She stumbled as the world spun lazily around her. Rest was what she needed yet there was no time for rest, no time for anything by running.

By the time she reached the foothills of the southern arc of the White Mountains, it was all she could do to stay on her feet. How much longer she would be there was anyone's guess. She only hoped her strength would last to her mission's completion.

o/o/o/o/o

Just beyond the tent, Elrohir crouched. Before him stood another tent, the entrance on the opposite side. In either direction stretched a narrow alleyway, riddled with holes which marked the spaces between tents. Prior to slipping out, he had not known what to expect, what he would see, but now that he had, he was not quite sure what his next move should be.

He could not remain where he was, he knew; they would eventually look between the tents, and if they were as experience dictated, it would be sooner rather than later. Returning to the tent after they cleared it seemed a dangerous proposition though he could not pinpoint why. If he was honest with himself, the feeling sprung mostly from the idea that he would be hiding, no closer to freeing his brother, but such honesty requires a willingness to look and he was not. He latched onto the idea without examining it, an elusive thought he could not quite focus the only encouragement he needed.

Leaving, then, was his only option, but where would he go? Where _could_ he go? He worked his way back through the myriad advice and information Sierra had provided before they split to attempt this rescue. Most of it, he noted with annoyance, was contradicted by something else the girl had said. The oft heard adage about not asking elves for advice twisted ironically through his mind.

Slowly, he wondered how much of the Slyntari doctrine was set down and how much of it was intuitively known to those raised to it, incomprehensible to those without. But then he heard footsteps approach.

Just as the flap was thrown open, he stepped as far from the rear wall as possible, hoping the light was such that his shadow could not be seen from within. He held his breath and waited, hand ready on his sword, as the Slyntari entered.

He thought he heard three sets of footsteps, but two disappeared almost immediately. He imagined they stood just inside the doorway, acting as guard against anything coming from without or within. The third was quiet, with the kind of cautious, careful step he had long associated with hunters and trackers—often (in his experience) their functions overlapped. Which he would prefer just now, he could not say.

Twice, he heard the being pause. Twice, he imagined the other stooping, crouching to more closely inspect the ground. One of which sounded suspiciously close to where he had slept the morning away. Then the steps crept toward him and he tensed. His knuckles turned white. His heart hammered within his chest.

The other stopped a bare foot from the canvas wall. He heard worn leather boots groan as the man shifted to a crouch. For a moment, he fancied the other was staring straight into his eyes. Then—silence.

Nothing but the sound of slow, even breaths reached his ears. Had he not known better, he would have said the man on the other side of the fabric wall had simply fallen asleep. But he did know better.

Suddenly, there was the whisper of fingers over stone, the barest grit of sand brushed over unyielding stone. Tracing something, or looking for something to trace?

Few were the men who could track elves. Too light were the steps of the Eldar to be noted by the average man, trained or no, yet some could do it, and it was far from inconceivable that Shirk's trackers would be able to track elves. Had he walked through the cloth barrier, he nevertheless would have worried little, for stone gave away little even of the tread of Men to keen eyes, yet he was painfully aware he had forced himself through a tight space, had slid across the ground with no attention to what signs might have been left in his wake.

For countless heartbeats he expected, in the next instant, that the tent would be ripped up, the leering faces of the Slyntari exposed to his apprehensive gaze. But nothing happened, and eventually he heard the quiet footsteps retreat, the flap flip closed, and the host retreat. It was several relieved moments later that he realized all trouble had not passed, that they had not, in fact, all left: one of the guards had been left behind.

He remained still as that realization twisted through his mind. A vague feeling that something was wrong, like the subtle discordance of a minor key, played through him. He did not remember anyone remaining behind at the other tent. Again, the possibility of betrayal rose in his mind. It was banished with rationales.

The other room had held a living occupant. Because the owner had been present, they knew no one had entered and stayed throughout the night. With an empty room they had no such assurance and were taking precautions against him thinking to return. But then, why clear out the others? Could he not just as easily enter and kill the resident upon his return? He knew he could, but that would leave a trail which would confirm his presence. Had they reached that same conclusion? Was this a precaution, a guard against his moving freely around their camp, against him having a safe place to hide and escape detection?

It was not impossible, he knew, and the Slyntari cared little for the lives of their own so it was a tactic he could see Shirk approving. He also got the feeling it allowed the dark elf to play with him, and he hated being toyed with.

_One more thing for him to pay for_, Elrohir decided darkly, then he pushed such considerations from his mind. He had a more immediate problem.

The Slyntari host had continued its search while he indulged his musings, and now they were nearing the end of the row. If they had not already completed the row behind him, they would soon move to do so, and as soon as they turned the corner, any soldier worth his salt would be gifted with a clear sight of him.

Quickly making a decision, the dark-haired elf rose and walked rapidly, quietly along the aisle until he had put a tent between himself and the tent which held the guard, then he turned and crept between two tents toward the path he had fled. If he Slyntari moved on to search the row behind him, his best choice would be to go back the way they had come, otherwise he would be pushed before them until he had nowhere left to run; and he had no intention of ending up in a corner. If they had not left a guard. . . .

He pressed himself as close as he could, backed as close to the canvas as he dared, and peeked around the edge. The first thing he saw was the group of men and women silently moving from tent to tent, down to their last two, then he turned his head and looked the other way.

They had left a guard. A bow was strung over his shoulder and he watched the street with the air of one born to sentinel duty, avid and focused, still as stone. He pulled back with a curse. If he did not stay ahead of them, he would be trapped.

If he was trapped, he could not help his brother.

Elrohir turned swiftly and hurried down the alley. If he was quick enough, he could get across the path before the host turned the corner. He knew he had no reason to believe they would head one way and not the other, but also could not afford to take the risk of being wrong. Luck had not been with him thus far, and his instincts screamed _move._

He slowed but did not stop as he approached the street, hesitating a bare moment before charging forth, well aware he had only seconds to get safely to the other side if the group did turn his way. But a step out, he froze.

Opposite him, three tents down, four men had just emerged from a tent. They started to look his direction, then paused and turned to look back at the tent, almost hovering, and Elrohir jumped back out of sight. From the shadows, he watched as a flaxen-haired woman stepped through, her eyes passing over where he would have been, a smile on her face. He swallowed to clear his heart from his throat. Not even his disgust with this particular practice of men could distract him from how close he had come to premature discovery and the doom of his twin.

Yet more immediate matters called his attention. He cocked his head to listen for the search party even as his eyes remained fixed on the quintet, willing them to disappear before the larger party caught up. He did not know how much time remained for him to cross the street before his chances were destroyed; too many extraneous noises competed for his attention to place even twenty individuals' quiet steps. Perhaps if they spoke. . . .

His eyes narrowed as the female and her friends began meandering his way. None were particularly aware of their surroundings, but they glanced about them far too often—and far too randomly—for him to be able to slip across. He cursed the ill fortune which had called them from their tent at so inopportune a time. They would not be clear before the other group arrived.

Once again, he retreated, returning to the narrow space bordering the rear of the tents, knowing as he did so that his ability to reach his brother was now severely compromised, and felt a part of him die. He could no longer reach Elladan without leaving a trail of bodies. With a trail, the Slyntari could discover his intrusion too soon, and if they did, it would his failure. It would mean his brother's death.

Sternly, he shoved the thought aside. It would no longer be a concern if he was caught even before it was time to move. Then he reached the corner, but a flash of movement kept him from continuing. He ducked back just as the first of the host crossed the alley's mouth and in that instant saw the man's head turn. He wondered if the other had caught sight of his motion.

Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath in a bid for the calm which was rapidly slipping beyond his grasp, Elrohir waited for the hammer to fall, the lack of an alarm bringing him no release. They would not wish him alerted to their knowledge of his presence before they were ready to trap him. He would not know if his carelessness was his downfall until they closed on him. But still he listened for the quiet scrape of approaching footsteps in taut silence. Only when he heard the smaller party press nearly upon him did he risk a glance down the path.

No one appeared within his view. The small crevice was empty and no one stood at either end. In the second he watched, no one passed so he decided it was safe. The elf slipped around the corner and pressed his back against the wall.

His eyes remained locked on the far break, each second expecting a Slyntari to pass before him and glance down the alley, betraying his presence. Yet one second passed, then another, and none walked past, none glanced into his hiding place. He breathed a quiet sigh as he allowed relief to hold him, allowed some of his tension to ease. That danger had passed; the host had not discovered him.

Yet unease twisted through him as he listened to the small party drift past his hiding spot and little of it had to do with the humans so close to him. Why had not the Slyntari left a guard at the far end? If they were going to the trouble of checking individual tents, it was because they wished to be thorough. And that desire flew in the face of leaving part of camp, no matter how seemingly insignificant, unguarded. It was an oversight he could not imagine them committing.

Which meant it was deliberate. But deliberate because they already knew he was here, or deliberate because they wished to lure him here by giving him space to operate in apparent security? It was a fine but important distinction, and one he needed to find the answer to, quick.

It was also, for good or ill, something he could not afford to discover standing still. He frowned as he tried to determine his course. Both streets were closed to him. It was possible, however unlikely, that he could leave by one of the ends and move to another part of the camp unseen. If no guard had yet been stationed at the opposite end of the street to the one the Slyntari now searched, that was an option. Preferable, of course, was to slip past the already placed sentry and head in the opposite direction, away from the intended search corridor. But for that, he needed to know what was happening in the interior of the camp.

Slipping quietly past tent after tent, he put more space between him and the enemy and eventually gained the far end where he had originally glimpsed the hunters. His first peek beyond the sand-colored fabric was not reassuring, and his second look convinced him his first instinct was correct.

Neither his first trip into the camp, nor his subsequent removal, had provided him with a clear view of the layout of the camp. Even his brief glimpse from the top of the mountains had failed to convey how open the interior of the camp was. The most noticeable feature was a pit three or four feet deep of roughly the same dimensions of the largest tent. No fewer than thirty pale-clad individuals milled about within it and darker clad Slyntari, half a dozen strong, stood above them, roughly two feet back from the edge.

Half a dozen feet north of the pit, another group was busily stacking wood for a bonfire, the peak reaching the top of every man's head. More guards watched them, bows in hand; and an almost steady stream of traffic through the area from all reaches of the camp ensured that the relatively small number of guards overseeing the slaves were not the only ones available. A single alert could summon more than twice the number of guards in a heartbeat.

His eyes lingered on a tall, thin pole as his hopes of slipping through died. None of the guards had heir hoods up, and if he could not pass himself off as a guard, he certainly could not pass himself off as a slave. He would have to hope for more luck on the other end.

Fading back into the shadows of the narrow alleyway, Elrohir quickly reversed his course. Frustration warred with anticipation within him: anticipation that this might finally be his escape from this aisle; frustration that each prior attempt had been stymied. And underneath both, lurked fear—fear that this last choice might also be blocked, fear that he would fail his brother.

Almost unconsciously, he counted the tents as he passed by, slowing as he reached his original starting point. So far as he knew, a guard still waited within, and after all the trouble he had gone to in order to remain hidden, he did not want carelessness to trip him up and undo it all. He crouched lower, further into the shadows, and eased past only to stop almost immediately as he came upon the large host. The scrape of dozens of footsteps off stone was as loud to him as a shout.

What to do? Judging by sound, they were inside the tent next to the one he stood behind. He had no real way of knowing how long the trio would spend inside the building. The last thing he wanted to do was cross the threshold between buildings at the same time the search party moved on. Regardless that they had not left a guard, he knew they looked into the crevices as they passed. That made timing tricky, and he could not tell precisely where the beings were located from where he was; they were too far away, their steps too soft. If they were at the rear of the tent, they might hear his footsteps. Yet he chafed at the idea of waiting here until they had passed him by.

He had time, he knew, as the sun had not yet sunk beneath the mountains and he could not move to rescue his brother until just before dawn; but he also did not know how long it would take him to work his way around the camp, nor what obstacles he would find as he tried to get there. His decision here could make the difference on whether he was ready when the moon was in position.

The elf bit his lower lip (a mannerism he had picked up from his human brother quite by accident) as indecision gripped him. He knew the risks, but it was the unknown factors outside his control which proved the greatest impediment. He could move now, but if the Slyntari within the tent heard him, he could be captured. He could wait, but if it took too much time, he might not make it to the detention cell in time to save his brother. Neither consequence was acceptable.

Still debating, he crept forward to peer around the edge of the tent. If the Slyntari were not near the edge . . . but he caught sight of two bodies just shy of the alley mouth. One was facing away from him, but the other was facing him. Talking? Perhaps. It hardly mattered, for he could not risk moving so long as even one man stood in a position to see him, concealing shadows or no.

Abruptly, both turned, peering down the street towards the kitchens. No call or cry had sounded, and the change startled him. Automatically, he started to follow their gaze—and felt a knife slide sharply under his chin.

"Well, well," a familiar voice intoned silkily, ironically. "What have we here?"

o/o/o/o/o

Light played off the cavern walls, thrown in jagged stripes as the water in the basin rippled, pushed not by an outside force but from within. Avid black eyes watched the scintillations, untroubled by the light flashing in their depths, unflagging in their diligence. Two hands rested on the basin's edge, waiting, holding the avid eyes back.

The light flickered faster, then, even as the water began to still, taking on a life of its own. It touched the stone walls, dancing over them like lightning, and leaving the basin cast in shadow, along with the being which stood at its head, peering into its depths. The torches placed along the wall flickered, ten died, as if all oxygen had been drawn from the room.

An electric blue glow, reminiscent of the elves but too harsh, too sharp, suddenly grew from a point on the man's chest, little obscured by the long white beard which hung to his waist. It started at a point, then spread to enshrine the still, brooding form. It played over him, drawing all light from the room, then swirled out to circle the altar, rising from its base toward the basin perched on top. The light seemed to leap into the air, reaching for the stone ceiling above before crashing back down, swirling into the water, churning it.

The water swirled within the bowl like a tornado viewed from above, the light draining towards its center and leaving darkness in its wake, a darkness which consumed the light and surged back out. The man leaned forward as, within the darkness, images formed.

_Silver eyes, hard and unyielding, flashing amid a sea of shadow, staring up at him with burning hatred ignited in their depths._

_A man, standing upon the battlements of a great city as a great host marches toward him against a wide plain. A strong breeze whipped dark hair over broad shoulders. Armor glinted against the sun. A long, bright sword flashed in his hand. A voice: "Stand now, or fall forever."_

_The gates of Minas Tirith stood open. Thousands of people flooded the street. Atop the King's Balcony, dozens stood, turned silhouettes by the sun's harsh glare. A crown, held high, lowered onto a man's head._

_A hand thrust high, clenched tight around a flashing sword; a small glint of gold from around a forefinger, broken only red lines around the band. Darkness engulfs the sun, spreads about the land. Silver eyes, hard as flint, glare out of a stern face. Thousands kneel. A cry, voiceless and of thousands: "Hail, Lord of the Dark Tower! None shall come but to thee."_

_Barad-dûr rises from scorched land, impossibly tall. At its peak, its highest balcony stands a man, clad in long, formless black robes, white hair whipped about by an eddying wind, thrown over his shoulder. Another stands at his side, tall and broad, strong, young, with bright silver eyes, clad in the mail of kings. A red gem rested in the hollow of his throat. The world of Men bowed at their feet._

Perego smiled. His hands caressed the basin's edge as the images faded from sight and blue light threaded its way through the darkness, quickly erasing the shadow and restoring the water to its shallow clarity. Long had he been in service to Mordor; long had he done the bidding of others, biding his time, growing his power. But now his time had come. Soon, he would cast down the Dark Lord and take his rightful place.

And it would start with the Ranger of the North, Strider, the one Shirk wanted, the being that prissy elf had notion of his true value, the one he had so dutifully led to the Mountains to meet his fate. But it would not be the fate the Lord's pet had chosen; it would be the fate of his own design, and it would lead him to power.

The Ranger was the key to his dominion; he had seen it. And once the ranger was bent to his will, there would be none able to stand in his way, not even the Dark Lord himself.

The future was in his hands.

A low growl broke the silence and his eyes came up. Unnaturally bright green eyes met his gaze from a figure stooped and broken, a being that had once been beautiful, had once been free—before she sold her soul to him. Now her pleasure was pain, her desire his will, and her usefulness almost at an end, for soon he would replace her. A frigid smile parted his lips.

"Patience, my pet," he soothed. "Soon, you will get your heart's desire. Soon. Everything is going according to plan."

o/o/o/o/o

"_Well, well, what have we here, brother?" Elladan held the tip of his sword under a man's chin, tipping the other's head up and holding him in place._

"_Looks like a beggar from the next town, brother," answered Elrohir carelessly. "What think you?"_

"_Ha, ha," the object of their discourse cut in before Elladan could answer. Estel turned his head to fix his brothers with a withering glare, forcing the elder twin to remove the blade or slice his youngest brother's throat. "You two are hilarious."_

"_Why, thank you, brother," Elrohir answered immediately, unperturbed by the other's sarcasm. "We try."_

_The young man just shook his head, and Elladan said, "You know, you're funny, too, little brother. Whoever heard of a Ranger getting caught off his guard?"_

o/o/o/o/o

"Who knew an Elf could get caught off his guard?" Nirt taunted slyly.

The blade of her dagger forced Elrohir's head up and obliged him to stand on his toes, and still the sharp edge dug into his flesh, so much so that he feared to swallow. He remained motionless as more humans approached. They took his hands and bound them tightly behind his back with coarse rope that burned and abraded his skin. They were not gentle, but he barely noticed.

The sky had darkened, a blue deep enough to match his navy blue dress robe in Rivendell, clear of clouds but not yet lit with night's first star. He had failed. He had failed and could not even seek solace in the heavens for the darkness pressed down on him, condemning, and his thoughts raced, flailed: How had Nirt crept on him, surprised him so easily? How had she even known he was here? If he had been quieter, would it have made a difference? Quicker? What—

"You quit our hospitality early on your last visit, Master Elf," the green-eyed hellion intoned as she removed her blade and turned him to face her. A small smile played about her lips. "I do hoe you'll stay longer this time."

"Don't count on it," he bit out. "Sensible beings go a long way to avoid service like yours."

Her smile widened. "And here you just walked into our camp," she said, "but I'm afraid we require special invitations for our guests. Can't have strangers just wandering around, after all."

"Too bad your guard is slipping then," Elrohir replied.

"Oh no, no," Nirt answered, her eyes and voice going distant. "No, our guard is as good as it ever was." She refocused on him. "Of course, you, my friend, might want to be more careful who you choose as friends."

o/o/o/o/o

Darkness had fallen by the time she stood before the cave opening on the eastern side of the southern chain of the White Mountains. Kalya stared at the dark maw with unseeing eyes as she struggled to catch her breath.

It bothered her that she had come upon no further patrols during her journey, though the rain had stopped and the temperature had climbed higher than it had in weeks. There was no reason the patrols could not have resumed at noon, yet they had not. She feared what that meant for Elrohir trying to remain hidden in the camp. It occurred to her that he could already have been caught, her efforts doomed to worthlessness before they truly began.

It also bothered her that no one stood guard at the cave's entrance. The last time the Slyntari had claimed these lands, they had guarded every entrance to the tunnels. She had never discovered why, but the abandonment of that practice sent an unaccountable shiver down her spine. Not for the first time, she wondered if it had been done to keep others—or to keep something in.

No that the answer mattered to her, here, _now._

Kalya blinked, her breathing easier, and forced her eyes away from the cave to glance at her surroundings. Great boulders decorated the ground and jutted awkwardly from shelves, ridges, and crevices. Some had been worn smooth by wind or water; others were as jagged as the day they were born. And here and there green disturbed the shifting scale of gray, patches of lichen the only hint of life to be seen for some thirty feet in any direction from the hole she was to enter. Uneasily, she wondered if that was a precaution the Slyntari had taken, or if nature itself had shied away from the darkness the mountains concealed.

It was a dark thought, one that left her distinctly uncomfortable; but there was nothing for it. Whatever was in there was not her concern. Not yet, at least.

Admitting defeat, she turned and retraced her steps to the forest's edge. Her eyes searched the ground as she moved over it slowly, and when she found what she was looking for, she knelt and seized it.

It was a stick a little wider around than was comfortable for her hand and nearly three feet long. Several leafless twig branches stuck out from the sides, making it look like some bizarre skeleton from a deformed beast. _Which would fit perfectly with the feel of this place_, she mused darkly, but again, that was not her concern, and it was the work of only a moment to dispose of them; and the proper application of some pressure chopped the stick down to a less unwieldy length.

She paused, then, studying her make-shift torch with critical eyes. Turning it slowly in her hand, she noted how dry it felt, and how flakes of bark broke off onto her hand. _No good_, she thought. _It'll all go up in flames and die just as fast_. And she needed it to last for several hours of wandering through dark tunnels.

Blue eyes scanned the ground, but no branch was any more likely than the one she held in her hands. Rain had just drenched these lands, but though she could see where the run-off had displaced dirt, the water seemed not to have touched the trees. _Protection against just what I'm planning?_ She had no way to know.

With a sigh, the girl pulled her water flask from the pouch she carried; she hoped she would not need it later. Then she opened it and slowly drenched the branch in the precious liquid. The outer skin still flaked off at her touch, and she slid her hands along it to get rid of all of it, but the wood underneath was damp, and Kalya was satisfied that it would work. A broad swath of tightly wrapped cloth later, she was ready.

Again, she glanced at the dark tunnel, darker even than she remembered, and for a moment she considered turning back. This was not her fight. She did not owe the twins anything. She could turn around and leave now, never look back. But Elrohir was counting on her to do here part; and if they actually managed to pull this off, they would have accomplished the impossible . . . and was that not what she had reveled in all her life?

It was, but this was different. She could feel it. If they caught her now, she would not be able to laugh it off and try again. And Elrohir and Elladan would fall with her.

If Elrohir had not been caught already.

Kalya scowled. She set her jaw, braced the torch and struck the flint. She had to do it again because her shaking hands thwarted her, but then the torch flamed to life with a comforting roar. She was heartened to find it worked.

Setting her shoulders, she stalked back to the cave with torch in hand, and this time she did not hesitate. This was the path she had chosen. She would walk it to its end.

o/o/o/o/o

"_Estel!"_

_But the boy did not pause or look back. He could hear his hitched breathing, his stifled sobs. What kind of brother was he? What kind of brother—_You're not my brother!_—disowns his youngest sibling for not being afraid? Was confidence not what they had been trying to instill in him? He had no right—_

"_Way to go, brother," Elrohir chimed in bitterly. "Why do you always have to do this? Every time he makes progress, every time he shows any confidence whatsoever, any comfort with who he is, you're always there to break him back down. Good thing he has you for a brother."_

"_No. . . ." he murmured, but he doubted Elrohir heard him, the denial so soft as to nearly escape his own ears. _That's not true—_but he could not say it. His own memories mocked the thought, turning it into a wicked dagger plunged over and over into his own heart. How many times had it been his thoughtless words that reduced the boy to tears? How many times had he lashed out in anger, in pain, and hurt the one he wanted to protect? How many times had Estel felt unwanted, unloved—because of him?_

_Too many. Far too many._

_His mind mocked him with memories of times past when unnecessary tears had welled in innocent eyes and pain deepened in silver orbs. Time after time, the young face turned away, time after time, Estel ran from him—and each time his heard broke anew._

_He rolled, struggling to gain his feet, and stumbled in the direction his brothers had gone. He needed to make this right, needed to erase the pain from his brother's eyes before it was all the boy had. Tears rose in his own eyes, pricking and itching, blurring the ground beneath his feet._

_And still he moved, half walking, half stumbling, running—the trees bent towards him—the branches snatched at his hair, scratched his face, his arms—roots clawed at his feet, tripping him, pulling him down—his legs were heavy, his breathing harsh—his brothers a million miles away, mere specks at the edge of sight as forest stretched away forever before him._

_On he ran, walked—stumbled. On his brothers fled, further and further away. He tried to call to them, to draw their attention, get them to slow, but his voice refused to work. Someone had poured molasses down his throat, sticking the words, keeping him silent._

_He opened his mouth to yell his brother's name—an inhuman shriek filled the air! His head snapped to the side, his eyes immediately taking in the dark shapes that rushed towards his brothers. His heart smashed to his feet._

_Desperately, he tried to run faster; but the harder he tried, the slower he moved, his feet suddenly in a strange mire, dragging, sucking. . . . A wretched cry broke from his lips. He was stuck—too far away._

_The foul beasts fell upon his brothers, somehow able to run without difficulty. He could hear the clashing ring of metal on metal and see the frantic swings as the dark-haired duo struggled to hold back the horde—if only he could help them! He should be there to help them! He was the older brother, for Manwe's sake. He was supposed to protect them._

_Frantic, he redoubled his efforts, forcing his sluggish body forward, step after weary step, driven beyond exhaustion by his fears. He saw his siblings' deaths with every arc of an orc blade, heard it with every grunt, every cry. If he did not make it in time, if Elrohir or Estel died because of his foolishness, because he was too slow, he would never be able to forgive himself._

_He would never be able to live with himself._

_He could barely make out the lithe form of his twin, twisting in and out of the melee with inhuman grace, his sword flashing strongly against the cruel blades; more difficult still was the stalkier, slightly shorter form that was Estel, dressed in dark clothes nearly indistinguishable from the orcs in the gloom. But he caught a flash of blade not his double and a bit of tangled hair—or maybe that was wishful thinking—and comforted himself that they were both still alive, still standing, still fighting. He could make it, _would_ make it—_

_A cry shattered his thoughts—high, full of pain, choked—and his heart stopped. His eyes sought the source barely ten feet away. The orcs parted to give him a clear view: Elrohir stood before Estel, who had been shoved out of the way, a great, ugly orc scimitar shoved through his chest to protrude from his back._

"_No. . . ."_

_Estel looked at him upon hearing the grief-stricken whisper, but he had eyes only his other half. The soft sound exploded through his head with the force his numbed body could not muster._

_He struggled forward and caught Elrohir just as he sank to the ground, heedless of the orcs surrounding them. "Brother," he whispered. "Not like this. Not like this. This isn't how it was supposed to be."_

_The younger twin's lips moved, but all that came out was blood—dark, red blood. It sheeted over his chin and down his chest like a grotesque parody of the waterfall that crashed so near their home. The blue eyes, identical to his own, turned glassy and unfocused, then stared vacantly into space, the soul that had looked through them forever gone._

"_No!" he moaned as the last breath escaped Elrohir's body. "No, brother, no! You can't leave me, Elrohir. You can't! Not now, not like this. No. . . ."_

I never got to apologize. He was mad at me and I failed him, failed them both and didn't even get to apologize. Why didn't you wait for me, El? Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? Why must I hurt the ones I love with things I don't mean to say?

"_Forgive me, brother; forgive me." But it was too late for that, his choked pleas unheard and unheeded. His tears slid ceaseless down his face and broken sobs wrenched themselves from his chest, strangling him. Blood drenched his hands._

_Then he heard a sob not his own. "You killed my brother, the only one who truly loved me! I'll kill you!"_

_Estel._

"_No!" he shouted, realizing belatedly what the grief choked words meant. He lunged after the young man, reaching for him, grasping at him frantically—_

_Too late._

_He shook his head helplessly, belligerently, refusing to look at his youngest brother. If he did not see it, did not accept it, it would not be true. Estel would sit up and grin at him, laugh at the look on his face, his eyes sparkling with the knowledge—the accomplishment—of finally tricking his brothers. No matter how cruel the trick, he would welcome it with open arms. He did not want to see, but he had to look._

_The child did not move. He did not smile or laugh, nor his eyes sparkle, the light and laughter gone out of the grail body before its time. Blood spattered the boy's pale face, painted his clothes in dark splotches that hone ever-so-slightly when struck by light, wet—soaked—with liquid that never should have been there. _

_A hole gaped in the boy's middle, and his hand trembled as he reached towards it, thinking maybe he could make it go away, soothe it like so many other scrapes and cuts and make everything better. His eyes could not believe this was real. Estel—his little Estel! His hand found the leg, the shirt, both solid, both there. Red warmth coated his fingers anew as he fumbled higher to find the boy's throat. He could not lose them both. He could not. . . ._

_He gasped—an anguished wail that shook the heavens with his despair, and in his head a cold voice echoed, voicing the knowledge of his heart, now dead as his brothers:_

"_They are dead. They are all dead." _

_And it is your fault. You killed them._


End file.
